Be My Shelter
by Kurai Himitsu
Summary: He found that he no longer had purpose.  She needed shelter.  Once more, he reluctantly found reason.  [Multichapter fic]
1. Of Fears and Demons

**A/N:** …As a rule, my Erik is Leroux-based, his past from Kay, and very little from ALW.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, not making any money!

**Ratings:** PG-13

**Genre:** Angst

**Warnings:** Not much. It's my first PotO chapter fic, but I've read the book, and Kay's _Phantom_, seen the 2004 and 1925 films as well. And this is _not_ a slash fic.

**Main Characters:** Erik and Nadir

**Additional Notes:** I would like to note that this story takes place about four or so months after the events of _The Phantom of the Opera_. One last note, as well: I realize that this beginning is a little cliché—but I'd already written it when I found out, and so could not easily change it. Please, just bear with it… It is from Erik's POV.

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_Be My Shelter_

_**Prologue: **__Of Fears and Demons_

The rain beat small symphonies into the pavement and cobblestone streets of Paris, and as I walked I could not help but listen to it with a bitter smile. The saddest songs come from the rain after all. I sighed heavily as I turned down the Rue Godot de Mauroy and into a convenient and comfortingly dark side alley. I had little care of becoming more soaked than I already was—I doubt such a thing was possible! It had started to rain when I was halfway from the Garnier to the L'église Sainte-Marie-Madeleine, and I had been soaked to my bones before I had ever reached the church. Still, I made the pilgrimage. Though I had never really been a "practicing Catholic," much to my poor mother's dismay, I have always deeply admired the architecture of the old buildings, and the L'église Sainte-Marie-Madeleine was no exception. That was the reason I had gone there that night. I had wanted to be surrounded by such glorious beauty, but far too many insufferable humans had gathered there, forcing my revelry short with their pretentious funeral. I had left the la Madeleine with no higher spirits.

I leaned back against the old brick wall of the alley wearily and let the symphonies of Heaven's tears remind me of my beautiful angel, my beloved Christine. I am ashamed to say that I was very nearly lost to the misery and memories in the side alley off the Rue Godot that night. That is, until Fate deemed it necessary that my wasted life continue.

The scream was a harsh one, and I was somewhat stunned by the nearness of it. Immediately, I felt for my mask, the pure instinct for cover in the face of threat flooding my body. It was still in its place and relief replaced instinct; I turned my attention, instead, to the scream. The scream had issued from the southwest of my small alley, but it could not have been much farther than the Boulevard de la Madeleine. However, it was none of my concern—as I was not involved in the slightest. At least, that is what I told myself.

Despite my assurances to myself, I could not bring my feet to move down the Rue Godot. My throat was dry as I glanced toward the Boulevard, toward the scream. The scream had been that of a woman's—that much I was certain of—and had quite effectively reminded me of Christine's terrified cry at the sight of my accursed face. _Christine…_

_What would she say, your angel, if she could see you now? She would think you a __**monster**_ whispered the venomous voice from the farthest corner of my mind, _for allowing that plea for help to go unheeded… _I grit my teeth but it was too late. I knew the treacherous voice spoke the truth, and my feet had already begun to carry me back toward the L'église Sainte-Marie-Madeleine as swiftly as they could.

I was fortunate—or rather, my burden of a _conscience_ was fortunate—in that I found the cause of the scream easily. It was a young woman, awkward and somewhat ungainly on her feet, running down the Rue de Seze, a small pack of five or so men following her at a leisurely pace. I took an alleyway to head her off. I waited, listening to the sounds of the rain coupled with the gritty sound of the woman's uneven footfalls. When she neared, I was ready, and I pulled her into the alley. I clamped my gloved hand over her mouth to stifle any screams she would undoubtedly attempt. And attempt she did.

"Quiet, mademoiselle," I hissed softly, "Or they will hear you." After a moment of stillness, I released her and she rounded on me, nearly launching herself into my arms.

"Monsieur!" she sobbed as quietly as she could. "Please! Help me—they mean to kill my child!"

_Child?_ With a start, I realized that the woman had not been merely "awkward and ungainly"; she was obviously pregnant. "Mademoiselle—"

"Please," she interrupted, oblivious to my words for her fear, "I beg of you!"

My infamous impatience flared for a moment and I snapped, "I _am_ helping you, mademoiselle." She sniffed, looking up at me with hopeful wide eyes. "Now you must—"

A chorus of angry shouts interrupted me and the woman whimpered piteously, clutching closer to me and burying her face in my side. She was shivering terribly and was as soaked as I was. The voices of the men grew louder as they neared, calling for their "_petit prostituée_." I felt my anger on the woman's behalf rise, with the bile, in the back of my throat. _So __**that's**__ what they want—filthy pigs!_

"Mademoiselle," I whispered, attempting to pry her off of my cloak. "Be calm—I'm going to help you, but first you must release me." She whimpered but complied hesitantly, throwing a fervent glance toward the nearing voices of the men. "That's better. Now, hide yourself behind those crates—the shadows will hide you well enough for my purposes."

I moved to hide myself, as well, in a separate shadow, but her small voice stopped me. "Monsieur…"

The plea was written clearly in her emerald eyes. _Don't leave me!_ I softened my voice and posture to calm her and convey a smile as best I could through my mask. "I will only be from your side for a moment or two—_do_ _not_ _fear_." I put my will into my voice, not so much commanding as a calming wave to give her the courage she currently lacked. She shuddered, but seemed to calm slightly and did as she was told, huddling as best she could in the dense shadows by the abandoned crates; I pressed myself into the shadows of the wall, covering my mask with my cloak to hide myself more completely.

We were not forced to wait for long, thankfully, for the men to find the alley, although they were slow—and half drunk, no doubt. I removed my mask as I heard their caterwauling and a moment later they had rounded the corner and entered our small alley. I smiled, feeling rather merciless to their "plight." They were still calling for their "_petit prostituée_," and I was beginning to feel sick at the thought of what was implied. There was no need for this to continue.

"She is not here," I said darkly, throwing my voice to the center of the alley. "Go back to your cathouses and leave me in peace." I lowered my cloak somewhat to see their reactions to my seemingly disembodied voice.

The men, I must say, were poor specimens of the gender—but then, that may only be my opinion, and who am I to talk of such things? Regardless, they were horribly ugly, by normal standards, and filthy, with thick necks and their bellies that resembled small stovepipe ovens. They were hardy men that had more than likely whiled away their lives at the wharf or in a bar. In addition, the one with the air of "leader"—and I use the term in the loosest possible sense—looked as though his favorite childhood pastime had been torturing cats and other small animals. They were men of the lowest order.

The leader snapped to alert, his watery beetle-like eyes searching for me in the dim. I was surprised to find that he pulled off one of the best displays of simultaneous aggressiveness and defensiveness I had yet encountered. "Who's there?" he barked.

I laughed, throwing my voice onto his shoulder. "No one of any consequence," I hissed, "But you may call me Death, if you like."

The leader's eyes widened in surprise and he stepped back before the rational side of his undoubtedly undersized brain began to overpower his superstitious nature and he remembered that he did not believe such things as Death walking among men. "I'm not a fool," he growled, grabbing the pistol at his fat waist. "You're no more than a damn trickster! Show yourself!"

My harsh laugh echoed on the bricks of the alley and seemed to be everywhere at once. "A trickster? Hardly!" I slipped into the center of the alley—I knew that, to the men, it would seem as though I had appeared out of thin air. "You wish to see Death?" I murmured, my head bowed to hide my unmasked face. "So be it."

For a gilt-edge effect, I raised my gruesome visage slowly and allowed a moment of shocked silence before I gave them a sneer with my twisted lips. "Come! Feast your eyes on the fate of your "_petit prostituée! _On the fate of all men!" For added effect—and because I could no longer contain myself in the face of their cowardice—I laughed, my voice nearly deafening in the small alley; I watched with relish as the men tripped over each other all the way down the Rue de Seze. Smiling to myself, I replaced the mask with a practiced motion and a sense of satisfaction.

When the men had left, I turned back to the woman cowering in the shadows, her hands pressed against her ears as she trembled. I sighed. "Mademoiselle? They are gone now—you are safe." She made no move to take the hand that I offered her and I suddenly felt ashamed of myself for frightening her. I shifted uneasily, my hand still waiting for hers. "Forgive me, mademoiselle," I said quietly. "I did not intend to scare you. I am a mere trickster—as they surmised—and you have nothing to fear from me." When she did not answer, I frowned, concern tugging at my mind. "Mademoiselle?"

"Mignonette," came the soft whisper. "My name is Mignonette Desrosiers." Still, she made no move to get up.

"Mademoiselle Desrosiers," I muttered, "Where do you live? I shall take you home."

In the rain-filled silence, I could see her shudder and her face fell as she dragged in a wet breath. "Gone," she whispered shakily. "They…burned it to the ground, Monsieur; I have nowhere to go."

She began to cry after that—I couldn't stand it. I had never been able to stand anyone crying in my presence—especially women and children. Her tears reminded me horribly of Christine's, and that was a memory I was yet unprepared to face, and rather unwilling to confront. "Mademoiselle Desrosiers, please do not cry." I wracked my brain for any words of comfort and grimaced at what I had turned up—it wasn't even comforting, to be honest, but it was all I had at the moment. _He_ would not be happy with me, but I could not endure her tears any longer, and it was the best I could offer. "I know of a place where you may stay and be safe for a time."

Her emerald eyes snapped to my mask in surprise. "Monsieur…"

I smiled and held out my hand. "Erik. My name is Erik."

To my immense relief, she did not flinch at my offering but took it with a kind of broken hope in her eyes, and I pulled her to her feet. She sniffed, wiping away her tears with her tattered, soaked sleeve; she smiled sheepishly at me. "Th-thank you, Monsieur Erik…"

"Just 'Erik' is fine, mademoiselle. Now, come."

There was hardly a soul out that miserable night as I led young Mignonette down the Rue de Seze and across the Boulevard to the Rue Cambon, heading ever further from the safety of my opera house. Though she was nervous, she never once faltered from fear. However, we were nearly to the Rue Saint Honore when she stumbled. I caught her before she touched the paving stones but nothing could be done after that; she was simply too exhausted. She did manage to walk, leaning heavily on my shoulder, as far as the Rue de Castiglione before I took her in my arms. She was asleep within minutes.

I made my way down Castiglione to the Rue du Mont Thabor, then to the Rue D'Alger—finally, I turned onto the Rue de Rivoli, where I expected a less than warm welcome. The street was blessedly dark and empty, and I found Nadir's modest flat with relative ease—though I must admit that I was rather tired myself by then. I managed to knock soundly three times with my boot before Nadir himself answered the door, looking somewhat annoyed. He opened his mouth in surprise—to chide me, I've no doubt—but I silenced him with a glare; he closed his mouth and ushered me in to a small guestroom where I was able to lay Mignonette in a comfortable bed. At length, Nadir and I retired to the small sitting room and I was permitted to relieve my aching feet.

The moment we were out of earshot of the guestroom, Nadir rounded on me. "_Idiot!_" he hissed. "What are you doing here? Allah! What were you thinking? You could have been seen!" I only raised an eyebrow behind the mask as I took a seat in the old armchair; I decided to let him rant for as long as he liked—and I was sure that would be a good while. I was not disappointed. "What if you had been seen?" continued Nadir. "You could have been arrested or any number of horrible things!" It went on that way for a time and I was nearly asleep when I felt his fingers wrap themselves around my arm. "Erik," he said grimly, staring into my eyes. "What happened?"

I sighed, brushing his hand from my arm. "She was being pursued by a pack of filthy men and beseeched me for help; she has no home to return to—and I certainly could not have taken her to _mine_…"

Nadir groaned, falling into the adjacent armchair and massaging his temples. "And so you assumed she could stay here?"

"Would you really put a woman with child on the street?" I asked; I couldn't help but smile. "Even I am not such a monster as that!"

"No," he sighed. "I don't believe you would—and nor can I. Damn you Erik!"

I chuckled and cocked my head to the side. "Come now, daroga; is company truly so unwelcome in your house?" Slowly, I began to slide into a memory… "That is not how I remember it once being." I sighed, somewhat wistfully, as I recalled a child's happy laughter and the taste of sorbet.

Nadir snorted in response, but smiled regardless. "It is only unwelcome when it is uninvited and unannounced." He looked tiredly toward the slowly dying fire. "She may stay here until other arrangements can be made."

"Thank you Nadir," I murmured.

He seemed surprised at my genuine admission of gratitude but he hid it as quickly as it had appeared. There was silence for a moment, only broken by the dry crackling of the withering fire, before he spoke again. "How far is she?" he asked softly.

I shrugged. "It was not something I thought to ask. My own guess would be seven, or perhaps eight." He nodded and the fire began to lull the both of us into a refreshing sleep.

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—_TBC_—

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**A/N:** Well, that's the end of the prologue. I hope it was good, and I promise you it shall get better as well as gain longer chapters. As I have said before, my Erik is Leroux/Kay-based with some very faint ALW-ness. As another note: Mignonette will _not_ be a Mary Sue. I promise—because Mignonette and Erik will not be a couple (sorry ErikXOC fans; it's just not gonna happen in this story). Anyway, please, _review!_


	2. Nightmare Medley

**A/N:** Well, not as many reviews as I had hoped, but I believe I shall post this in the off chance that it lures in more readers. I will not update again, however, until it has received 10 reviews (which will probably end up being a lie).

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, not making any money!

**Ratings:** PG-13

**Genre:** Angst

**Warnings:** Not much. It's my first PotO chapter fic, but I've read the book, and Kay's _Phantom_, seen the 2004 and 1925 films as well.

**Main Characters:** Erik and Nadir

**Additional Notes:** One note: I realize that this beginning is a little cliché—but I'd already written it when I found out, and so could not easily change it. Please, just bear with it… I also promise you that this will not be a Mary-Sue. My wonderful beta, Stratagem Blue, can attest to this. (Again, thank you so much, Mademoiselle!)

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_Be My Shelter_

_**Chapter 1: **__Nightmare Medley_

I cannot remember if I dreamed that night, but to this day, I can scarcely believe that I allowed myself to fall asleep in the presence of another. My slumber, however, did not last long judging by the still guttering fire, and I was startled to my senses for the second time in so many hours by a scream. After finding no danger in the immediate vicinity, all thoughts turned to the young woman from the night before and I was on my feet in moments.

_Mignonette…!_

She was huddled and sobbing on the bed when I arrived at her bedside. "Mademoiselle?" I murmured softly, so as not to upset her further. "What is wrong?" She only shook her head; carefully, I sat on the edge of her bed—before I could so much as open my mouth to speak, she had latched onto me, her thin arms around my waist and her face shoved against my chest. It seemed my hands moved of their own accord as I gently began to stroke her back. "Calm, calm, child. You are safe." From the corner of my eye, I could see Nadir staring at us in dumb surprise—to be honest, I was shocked myself.

Mignonette shuddered, curling into my side. "Monsieur Erik," she whispered, "Please, stay with me here…"

I swallowed, my stomach seemingly full of butterflies. "Of course I will, _ma cherie_." She smiled a little and closed her eyes, settling on my lap and drifting to sleep again. It was another moment before I realized I was trembling. Nadir was still rooted where he stood and I sent him a pleading glance, which seemed to shake him out of his stupor. Much to my dismay, however, he refused to help me free myself. Instead, he merely made where I already was more comfortable. When I attempted to reprimand him with a sharp glare, my shame was made complete with his chuckle.

"No," he whispered. "You brought her here, and you promised her you would stay—I'll have Darius make you a pallet on the divan."

And then I was alone with the woman, Mignonette Desrosiers, asleep on my lap. I sighed; at least she was light—for a pregnant woman, at any rate—and I could still feel my feet. Somehow, I managed to move Mignonette and myself back until I was leaning back against the wall, pillows cushioning my back; quietly I thanked my luck that Mignonette had not woken and that the small bed had been pushed against the wall.

Now that I was in a far more comfortable position, I had an opportunity to have a much closer look at Mignonette. She was not tall—I, myself, was nearly six-foot four and Mignonette, by comparison, was about five-foot three or so. Her hair, which I had not taken the time to notice properly, was a dark raven black and I could see that, on normal occasions, it was sleek and soft with health. She was thin, however; horribly pale and almost as thin as I was, disregarding her protruding stomach. I could not help but worry. By my guess, she looked to be about twenty or twenty-five—certainly no younger than that, and obviously no older. She whimpered softly in her sleep and I sighed, brushing a lock of ebony hair behind her ear. It was going to be a long night…

I had barely managed a small nap when Mignonette began to twist and curl into herself. It was obvious that she was in the throes of a particularly merciless nightmare, but I hadn't the heart to wake her; after all, nightmares pass and she was exhausted. I sighed and began to run my fingers through her beautiful waist-length hair. Her thrashing calmed but her moans and whimpers only increased, as though to make up for the lack of movement.

"Hush,_ma petit_," I soothed, rocking her as one would a child; she shuddered and pressed closer to the safety of my side. My lips formed the words effortlessly, my voice easily recalling the old tune of the long forgotten Romany lullaby that I had not sung nor heard for neigh two decades. But it seemed to calm her and eventually the wings of sleep took us both to far more pleasant landscapes.

I woke slowly the next morning; sunlight was streaming through the small window and a pair of dark emerald eyes were watching me. I blinked, startled by Mignonette's nearness—she was still curled at my side, though her head was now resting on my shoulder. She was staring at my mask curiously; she yawned quickly, however, when she realized I was awake. She smiled. "_Bonjour_, Monsieur," she greeted with a blush, rubbing away the dried tearstains from her cheeks.

I could only nod, helping her to sit. "Did you sleep well?" I asked after she was satisfied that she had rid herself of the stains.

She sighed contentedly. "Yes, that was the best sleep I've had in ages."

_How sad_, I thought, _that such a restless sleep should be considered the "best."_ I shook my head, getting carefully to my feet. "Come," I muttered, holding out my hand. "I believe that breakfast is in order." Her eyes lit up at the mention of food and I could not help but smile behind my mask.

We found Nadir already sitting at the table with a fresh cup of tea. He smiled knowingly at me when we entered and I returned his look with a glare from over Mignonette's head—he seemed undeterred. "Good morning," he said, his good cheer obviously restored as he stood to bow to Mignonette. "How did you sleep, mademoiselle? Well, I trust."

Mignonette blushed and I had the feeling that she had never before been treated so well. "Y-yes," she murmured, somewhat shyly. "Thank you, Monsieur."

"Nadir Khan, but please, call me Nadir." He kissed her hand, and looked the perfect Parisian gentleman, if not for his complexion. "And welcome to my home. You may stay as long as you like."

"Thank you Monsieur—I-I mean, Nadir." Nadir smiled and pulled out a chair for her. I, however, remained where I was, standing in the shadowed corner of the room—which I had no doubt Nadir had somehow darkened for me. She sat down, proper and lady-like, albeit nervously. A moment later, however, she sprang to her feet with a cry as though she'd been struck by a scorpion. "Oh, my manners," she cried, looking fearfully at Nadir, wringing her thin hands at her chest. "My horrible manners! I have inexcusably forgotten to introduce myself! Forgive me, good Monsieur," she murmured, curtseying, "My name is Mignonette Desrosiers."

I glanced at Nadir as I attempted to hide my amusement—a simple feat with the mask in place—but the daroga was having a much harder time of it. He failed miserably and could not stop himself from laughing quietly. "Mademoiselle," he chuckled, smiling fondly at her, "It is quite all right. Now please, sit down." She did, her cheeks red; Nadir glanced at me. "Are you going to join us Erik?"

"No. I believe I shall just acquaint myself with your library, daroga—if you do not object, that is." He merely nodded and I retreated to the small room that he had reserved for a library.

It was a small room, indeed, but filled with books from wall to wall with a pleasant alcove with a small end table with a lamp and two chintz chairs in its glow. I scanned the old and dusty shelves for a suitable read. Most of the contents of Nadir small library seemed to be religious Islamic tomes, of which I had long since discarded the curiosity for in my long years in Mazenderan. However, I unearthed a few classics from one of the far bookshelves in a corner that held more dust than the rest. _Othello_ was crammed between Goethe's _Faust_ and _Paradise Lost_ by Milton. It seemed quite the inviting book and so it was _Othello_ I chose. I settled in one of the chintz chairs and sighed as I opened the old volume. I was lost in the old pages in moments, though Milton seemed to have invaded my mind. I was uncomfortable now, knowing that the volume was so near to me. I had read it once, long ago, and I could remember quite well _Satan_'s words and plight, and it seemed that it echoed my own rather closely. Too closely for comfort. With that said, I threw myself entirely into the words of Shakespeare's _Othello_ with rather reckless abandon, attempting to forget all else; to forget, for the moment, Christine. So it was no surprise that, nearly an hour and a half later, Mignonette managed to enter the room without my noticing.

"Monsieur Erik?"

I looked up, somewhat startled, and quietly put my book aside. "Yes, mademoiselle?"

She fidgeted nervous, her beautiful emerald eyes darting everywhere but my face. "I," she started but stopped, her cheeks coloring slightly. "That is to say… Thank you, Monsieur Erik, for all you've done. I've made such a burden of myself—I couldn't possibly impose any further on you or Monsieur Khan—it would be inconsiderate—"

I held up a hand to stop her. "Now, now, Mademoiselle Desrosiers, do not do that." I smiled to myself. "The daroga is happy to have you—I dare say he'll get no other company until my next excursion—and it would quite upset him to let a woman wander the streets in your condition."

Mignonette sighed. "Are you certain that I am not troubling the both of you?"

"Quite certain."

"Then I shall stay," she conceded, "As long as you will." My surprise must have been obvious because she frowned. "Monsieur? Will you not stay?" Nadir had appeared behind her in the doorway, his eyes sparkling in amusement as I sent him a questioning look. He nodded, and I could not help but sigh in defeat.

"I shall stay, then, Mademoiselle," I murmured. "After all, you have asked so nicely and I cannot bear to see you unhappy."

She smiled and I was entirely unprepared as she threw her arms around my neck; it was an accident, I well knew—and partly my own fault—, but when she pulled away so did the mask. Nadir's eyes widened, all humor gone, and his body was tensed and poised to intervene. All was silent as I scrambled to cover my face—but it was too late.

Mignonette had seen.

I felt sick and angry, as I had when Christine had tore away my mask. My free hand groped for the familiar comfort as I got to my feet and I put it to my face, tying it securely in place. My hands were shaking; I knew I had to leave before I caused serious harm. "I must go," I whispered, trembling. "Forgive me."

I brushed past Nadir to the foyer and into the sunlight beyond. I hated the sunlight and the people it brought, but I couldn't stay in the house any longer—I had been so stupid! I was a fool to think I could stay so near a woman. Oh God, my face must have struck the terror so deep in her! I knew that I would never forgive myself if she lost the child of fright—the thought of the possibility alone sickened me further and I felt truly wretched.

"Monsieur Erik!" I thought my ears had deceived me, until her thin fingers clasped about my arm. "Monsieur, please wait!"

I froze, my head bowed. "Mademoiselle…"

"Please, come back," she murmured, moving to stand in front of me—I turned my head away, so as not to frighten her more. "Monsieur Khan has explained it and I want you to return. _Please_…"

"Mademoiselle, you do not know me," I said bitterly, gently prying her from my arm. "I am not as kind as you seem to believe and, though it flatters me, I do not wish you to suffer for my lies."

There was a moment's silence before she began to laugh. "I've known men who have been far worse than you, Monsieur Erik. Now come back."

Hesitantly, I looked up at those emerald eyes, surprised to find such concern and real honesty in a woman who must have been utterly terrified of my gruesome face. Yet, here she was, asking me to return—nearly begging! I looked away, though the sickness and anger I had felt were melting. "Mademoiselle, you have no idea what you are saying—I am a monster in gentlemen's clothes and soaked in blood that can never be washed away. I am wholly tainted."

"Please, just come back—you can convince me in Monsieur Khan's home just as easily as you could here—but I, for one, would prefer the privacy a room offers."

I sighed, and against my better judgment supposed that I at least owed her an explanation. "I shall return, but only to convince you."

She smiled sadly, relieved. "As you wish."

Nadir was waiting at the door when we returned, and he smiled that same relieve smile as Mignonette had when he saw me. He ushered us in for the second time and closed the door firmly behind us, locking it. I went no further than the sitting room. Mignonette sat down in the armchair, sinking into the soft cushions; she was quiet for a long moment, gathering her thoughts—I waited impatiently. She sighed. "Monsieur Erik," she murmured, "I will not lie to you. I was quite…frightened…when I saw your face. I suppose I had guessed what the reason for your mask could be, but nothing could have prepared me for your face." I looked away once more; why had she brought me back? Why had I not just left? "But you have been so kind to me, Monsieur Erik, that I realized that fear was the last thing I should feel for you; nor should I feel pity, as that tastes foul on my tongue. No," she said, smiling that same smile from before as I forced myself to look back at her, "I will not pity you, nor fear you. No matter of your past—your present kindness is all I know or care about. Now, I will ask you once more—please, Monsieur Erik, will you stay?"

I stood in the doorway, in awe of her words. She could not have been older than twenty-five, and yet she possessed a wisdom of someone a lifetime old. Never had I encountered such a person in all my years. I swallowed as her eyes saw through my mask. "Mademoiselle… it seems that…I…I have acted far too rashly in judging you." I could think of nothing else to say, but I knew there had to be more, somehow. "Please, all apologies—and yes, if you truly wish it, I shall stay a while longer."

She smiled with less sadness now. "I wish it. Truly."

I could not help but smile weakly myself. "Then I will stay."

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—End chapter—

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**A/N:** Well, that the end of this chapter. I hope it was good. As I have said before, my Erik is Leroux/Kay-based with some very faint ALW-ness. As another note: Mignonette will _not_ be a Mary Sue. Chapters get longer after this one (as well as better; I will probably fix this one eventually). Please, review! 


	3. Lunacy Fringe

**A/N:** I _did_ paraphrase a line from _Pirates of the Caribbean: the Curse of the Black Pearl_—just ignore it. Kudos to anyone who can find it, though; it's rather obscure. And yes, yes. I know I lied. I said I would wait till I have ten reviews. But this is a gift for my friend—her week hasn't been the best, and my lovely beta deserves it. Ne, Mademoiselle?

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, not making any money! However, I _do_ own Mignonette—please ask before borrowing.

**Ratings:** PG-13

**Genre:** Angst

**Warnings:** Slight OOC-ness. . .

**Main Characters:** Erik, Nadir, and an OC (Mignonette)

**Additional Notes:** Also, I promise you that Mignonette will _not_ be a Mary Sue—and I am not being over confident—I have my reasons. My beta, Stratagem Blue, and I are working hard to ensure that she will not become one. Also, a great thanks to my beta, Stratagem Blue for the scene with the technical violin stuff—which she wrote. Thanks _so_ much!

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_Be My Shelter_

_**Chapter 2: **__Lunacy Fringe_

As the days passed, Mignonette and I fell into a comfortable companionship. The afternoons were full of the sound of her laughter as I regaled her with some of my more…amusing endeavors—particularly those that did not involve the business end of my Punjab lasso or bloodshed of any kind, though I did find it necessary to edit quite a bit. I came to enjoy these times and, occasionally, I would seek her out if I happened to remember a rather engaging and humorous venture that I had forgotten long ago. On that day, the day I learned one of the first small somethings of her past, I had remembered an incident during my time in Nijni-Novgrod as a street magician that I believed would somewhat amuse her. I was eager to tell her, and I soon found her on a lonely window seat, looking out at the _Jardin des Tuileries_. My eagerness, however, evaporated when I noticed the air of sadness, of absolute helplessness that seemed to pervade the entire window seat; even the velvet curtains seemed to be crying with it.

I frowned. Mignonette's face was the perfect portrait of resigned, and yet unwilling, sorrow. She had not yet noticed me and I stood for a time, watching her small hands tentatively caress the ever growing bulge of her stomach. I turned to go, but something in her forlorn gaze stopped me and held me fast to the Persian rug. I swallowed, moving to stand beside her. I bit my lip for a moment, in hesitation, before clearing my throat. She seemed startled and looked at me with wide, fearful eyes that stung. I followed her previous gaze to the _Tuileries_. "Mademoiselle, are you all right?"

Her gaze soon joined mine and it was a long while before she answered. "Just a little tired, is all Monsieur," she murmured, her voice trembling.

I raised an eyebrow at the obvious lie. Why women would tell such bold-faced lies, I never could understand. "Is it about the child?" I asked, ignoring her previous words. She stiffened but made no move to answer; I knew I had found ground near the root. "Or perhaps it is about the child's father?"

Her eyes found mine and I saw such anger flash in those emerald depths as I touched that forbidden tree that I was nearly compelled to take a step back in defense of my life. "That is none of your concern, Monsieur." She turned back to the _Tuileries_ and I knew then that I would get nothing else for my questions but anger. It was useless to talk to her at the moment, and so I left, pondering the curiousness of her reaction. Days passed and she seemed to have forgotten our exchange and the routine returned, as though it had never been broken.

In the mornings, we would have a relaxed breakfast (at my expense, as I did not wish to put Nadir out more than I already had), Nadir, Mignonette, and myself. Once contented, Nadir and Mignonette would go out for a time, for a leisurely stroll—I must admit that I was quite jealous of Nadir for the fact. But no matter how often Mignonette asked me to accompany them on these walks, I refused. I was always rewarded with the saddest look of disappoint from her emerald eyes. It never failed to tear my heart apart.

Mignonette looked at me on one such morning. Nadir, holding her velveteen cloak, hovered near the door, his cloak already on. She came to me as I was reading _Tamburlaine_, and her eyes pierced through my mask; I barely looked up. "Monsieur Erik," she began and I sighed, already knowing what was to come. "Shall you not be joining us today?"

I shook my head, putting the book aside as I got to my feet to escort her to the door. "You know very well that I shall not, mademoiselle. Why do you press me so?"

Her beautiful lily-white face twisted into a scowl as she reached up to finger the mask; by sheer force of will, I stopped myself from pulling away, though my heart was pounding. "Only because I wish you to come—after all, it cannot be good for one's health to remain indoors for so long."

Gently, I took her hand, the one that was caressing the mask, and brought it to my lips. "I am truly sorry, mademoiselle, but I am afraid that it is rather against my nature to go for morning walks in the sunlight."

She pouted. "But its Sunday, Monsieur Erik, and I had hoped that we could take a picnic to the Seine. It would be absolutely perfect with this weather, don't you think, Angel?"

I found I could hardly speak. She had called me angel—no, no—_Christine_ had called me angel. I had only imagined the title from Mignonette's lips. I swallowed, forcing a smile. _Don't you think, Angel? _Nadir began to look at me with concern then, his olive brow knitting with worry, jade eyes fixed on me. "Yes, it would," I barely managed to breathe out. "Now go—or it will be too hot." _…__**Angel**__…_An odd expression of indecision crossed her face but she left a moment later, her arm linked with Nadir's. The sight nearly killed me. Then I was alone and all the solitude rushed in on me. It crushed me and I could not think.

"…_And now I want to live like everybody else. I want to have a wife like everybody else and to take her out on Sundays…"_

A shudder took me in its icy grip and I groped for something—anything!—to steady myself with. Even as my lips formed her name I gasped and moaned—God, the pain was so intense though it came from but a memory. "_Christine!"_

My vision began to waver and I was slipping further into memory's grasp. The landscape of Nadir's flat swirled and danced before my eyes, melting to my sweet Christine's dressing room. And she stood there, in front of me—just beyond the mirror. I tried so hard to reach her, my thoughts running circles about themselves as my mouth moaned her blessed name. Christine! Dear, good Christine—she had returned! My joy had returned to me, and what longing lightness that gave my withering soul! But somewhere, someone was crying—screaming and writhing in agony. I paid it no mind. My hands reached out for her, reached out towards the mirror. Christine was smiling at me and her smile only sweetened when I hesitantly touched her cheek with my dead hand. And for a moment, pure happiness welled in my chest and I whimpered.

Her image rippled suddenly and faded to a mirror. The sheet of glass and mercury separated us now and I cried out, clawing at it; I had to reach her somehow! To my delusional mind, Nadir's bathroom seemed the palace of the _khanum_ and the _shah-in-shah_. Terror seized my heart—No! Why was Christine here? Oh God, not her—not here! I could hardly breathe now, though my lungs heaved to bring in air, and I was shaking terribly. I raged in that small room, seeing nothing but the _khanum's_ torture-chamber and those deadly mirrors. My fists beat against the walls, the mirrors of my mind, seeing Christine as I made her suffer for her precious vicomte. I could stop nothing. I was powerless. It all swirled to a terrible climax, and quite suddenly a sharp pain, then nothing.

My senses slowly returned through the dying gloom of my blood-soaked past. And yet, the blood had followed me, even to Nadir's flat. The crimson substance was welling from a cut on my arm, a few inches above my wrist, my good shirt ruined by the tear. I frantically shoved up the sleeve to my elbow; I swallowed—was _this_ the only cure?

_Begun by blood, by blood repaid…_

The razor was lying a few feet away on the cold tile floor, my blood still glistening on the reflective blade. I must have swatted it off the counter, where Nadir set it every morning after cleaning his face, in my delusional madness. I swallowed again, tasting bitter bile and copper, as I reached for it. My hands were still shaking so badly that the razor had cut several lines into my palms and fingers before I could bring it near enough to examine it.

_Begun by blood…_

As I observed the blood, I realized I felt better, freer than I had in years. With that realization came the hunger, the desire to feel it, to see it all the more, and no one's but my own would do. I smiled ironically; this would be my blood sacrifice to my victims. God, let it please them! The razor was cold as ice and I hesitated only a moment before slashing at the skin of my arm. I lost myself again to the churning madness in my gut, the sickness that had left me in peace, for a time, after Christine—and before her. But I should have known that I would never be free of the madness that had always haunted my wretched life. Soon enough, the red covered everything, and I drifted away from myself.

I do not know how much time had elapsed before Nadir found me, but I remember hearing his muffled, surprised curse. I heard Mignonette's questioning voice and I opened my eyes wearily—God, I felt so tired… I could barely make out Nadir's thin form crouching in front of me, something that spoke of more than general concern about him: he seemed worried…afraid.

"Erik?" he questioned, and I could do nothing but stare dumbly about me; his voice shook in barely concealed panic when next he spoke: "Erik, can you hear me? Allah, Erik, _answer me!_" His voice was hushed—_Mignonette must not know._ I nearly laughed in my delirium.

"Leave me," I whispered instead, Christine's image reflecting once more on the titled floor that I was sitting on, slumped as I was against the sink's counter. "I must…_repay_ them…before it's too late!"

Nadir seemed to shudder, but he didn't move away. Instead, he turned his attention to my arms—both of which were now covered in cuts—and the blood. His face paled and he swallowed as he cautiously took one of my hands in his own to examine it. "Allah, why did you do this to yourself?" he asked the air absently.

I frowned, tugging my hand, unable to pull it away from him. "I_must_…repay them, daroga!"

"Repay who?" he asked sharply, "What has made you do this, Erik?"

It seemed that I truly came to myself then, for the first time since I'd been left alone. Anger welled in my throat and I snapped, "What does it matter to you what happens to me, daroga?" I could see that it was not Christine's image staring back at me from the tile, but my own shimmering back from a piece of the mirror I had shattered. My anger dissolved and, with it, my strength—I began to shake, a dark fear taking hold; I pressed a hand to my eyes. "Oh God—Nadir!"

"Erik?"

I was choking, gasping softly. "I… I… What happened?" I looked up at him, my eyes wet with the tears I was loath to shed. "Did I…hurt anyone?"

He seemed startled, and I could see the confusion in his eyes. "No, just yourself—Erik, what is going on?"

My shaking only worsened and my tears forced me to remove the mask. "Please," I sobbed shamelessly from relief and fear as I groped for Nadir's arm, for something to keep me from breaking. "God, please help me Nadir—I've been hallucinating!"

It was a moment before Nadir reacted to my confession. He sucked in a breath. "E-Erik… Let's get you somewhere you can rest—once I clean your arms, you can have my bed, it's the closest." I knew he would return to the subject of my hallucinations when he had reassured Mignonette of my health. Presently, he grabbed a wet rag and began to wash away the blood to examine the cuts. He sighed. "You're lucky Erik," he murmured, releasing my arms after bandaging them. "None of the cuts were serious. Come; let's get you to the bedroom. Can you walk?"

Nadir didn't wait for an answer, however, and he grabbed my upper arm and easily dragged me to my feet. I stumbled but his iron grip kept me from falling. He led me to his room, carefully avoiding the sitting room, where I had no doubt Mignonette was waiting worriedly. Soon enough, I found myself in Nadir's bed with the covers to my chin and Nadir himself telling me to sleep. "We'll talk in the morning," he assured me quietly before returning to Mignonette. I could hear their muffled voices in the next room as I slowly drifted to the comforting arms of a dreamless sleep.

A soft touch on my face woke me and, for a moment, I smiled, pressing into the touch before I heard a quiet sigh. My senses jolted awake and my eyes flew open to see Mignonette watching me with a strange expression. "M-Mademoiselle…"

She smiled warmly—motherly. "Oh, Monsieur Erik, _bonjour!_" I cast my eyes about for my mask—I couldn't subject her to my hideous face any longer than she already had been. She handed it to me from its place on the nightstand. "How do you feel today?" she asked pleasantly, settling back in the bedside chair.

I carefully tied the mask back in place and instantly felt better. "Much improved," I answered.

Her smiled only widened before she suddenly gasped, her thin hands flying to her swollen abdomen. Cold fear gripped me as I struggled to her side. "_Mignonette!_ What's wrong?" She looked at me, radiating a pure happiness as she smiled, tears in her eyes. "Mignonette?"

She laughed. "I'm fine, Monsieur Erik," she assured. "The baby kicked, is all." I blinked in slight confusion; she shook her head, taking my hand in hers. "Here." My face burned beneath the mask as Mignonette tenderly placed my dead hand on her bulging stomach. "Can you feel it?"

I pushed the awkwardness of the situation to the back of my mind as I concentrated on feeling any movement beneath my palm. I had almost given up hope when something hit my hand. My eyes widened in pleasant surprise; I smiled up at Mignonette. "Yes."

It was then that Nadir made his appearance in the doorway—no doubt he'd heard my cry—to find Mignonette and I grinning like a pair of fools, my hand still feeling for the tiny child's kicks. "What is going on in here?" he asked, frowning.

My smile widened—I couldn't help myself. "The baby kicked, daroga," I informed him quietly. "Come and feel." He glanced at Mignonette, who nodded her consent and waved him closer. He placed his hand next to mine and we three indulged ourselves for a time in the child's kicks. After awhile, I sat back on the bed, still smiling, and Nadir leaned against the doorframe.

"Amazing," I murmured, sighing. "Which do you think it will be? A boy or a girl?"

"A girl," said Nadir confidently. "I believe it will be a girl."

Mignonette laughed softly at Nadir's conviction, her eyes half-closed with contentment. "Does it really matter?" she asked, placing a hand on her stomach with a wistful smile. "I will love the child either way."

A sudden unease drifted over me and I shifted on the bed. "No," I whispered, "It doesn't matter what the gender is."

Sensing a darkening mood, Nadir spoke: "Mademoiselle Mignonette, I've been wondering: how far are you, precisely?"

A soft frown tugged at Mignonette's small lips and her brow furrowed in thought as she counted back the weeks. "About…eight, or eight and a half, I would say." Nadir nodded.

The uneasy feeling only grew around me and I fidgeted, my fingers lightly playing the notes of Bach's _Toccata_ on my thigh. Nadir must have seen the warning signs of my impending need for solitude as he escorted Mignonette from the room under the pretense that I "needed rest." He was alone when he returned, and his expression was one of sincere concern. I knew exactly what he wished to speak of; I looked away.

"Erik? What is it?"

I shook my head. "Only a pesky memory—nothing of importance, daroga."

I have no doubt that he knew I was lying, but he let the matter drop just the same. "What happened yesterday?" he asked instead, once the door was closed. His arms were folded across his chest and I knew that there would be no evading his impertinent questions this time; I closed my eyes. "What did you see?"

"Christine," I found myself answering. "My sweet angel. She was beyond the mirror—just beyond it, you see—but I could not reach her!" To my shame, my voice wavered and cracked and held none of its former glory. "And then she was in the _khanum's_ palace and still behind the mirror and I knew it was the torture-chamber. And I could see them, all of them, all the suicides of the chamber and—oh God!—Nadir, Reza as well." I was shaking by then, such a strong feeling of claustrophobia creeping into my veins; I moaned. "And they demanded it—they demanded payment—red payment, daroga—and good Erik tried his damnedest to pay it!"

Nadir's old eyes were full of sadness. "You've paid them, Erik—believe, you've paid heartily."

I moaned again, my back arching as I gripped the bed sheets. "Will they always haunt me so, Nadir? Those rosy hours—God, you must hate me, daroga! You must demand a payment of sorts, yourself, for those hours—rosy with blood and painted with these artist's hands—Come daroga! Demand the payment for yourself and Reza!"

"_Stop this, Erik!_" Nadir was livid as he gripped my shoulders; he shook me, hard. "I've made my peace with it; now it's your turn!"

I shuddered. "But…"

He held up a hand. "I'll hear no more of it." His eyes leveled with mine and his jade eyes were set. "Now you may do as you wish, but do _not_ upset Mademoiselle Desrosiers. Am I understood?"

Even though I was shaking, I could not help but laugh at the irony of the absurd situation—Nadir was scolding me. The Phantom of the Opera Garnier was being scolded like a child. It truly was ridiculous. "Yes, yes, daroga." I sighed, my spirits lighter than before. "I believe—daroga, do you still have my old violin?"

He seemed surprised but smiled. "It is in the study; I shall get it for you." I nodded as he got to his feet.

It had been years since I had touched the wood of that particular violin, my hands much preferring the raw power of the pipe organ, but I felt its eagerness to sing the moment my fingers curled around the neck. Nadir, though no musician, had kept the instrument in absolute perfect condition—minus the tuning, but that was a simple matter and of no consequence. I sighed my thanks as I put the beautiful ebony and silver treasure beneath my chin. The moment the bow slid across the strings, I felt safer, all my fears somehow calmed. I let my fingers fall as they would, hitting the sharps and flats as my hand traveled ever higher up the fingerboard. With every sweep of the bow I felt myself move with the music, becoming an extension of the instrument as I played, my vibrato so natural, the intonation, the phrasing. The timbre of this violin was of the softest and most yielding I had ever heard, filling the room with a richness of sound that I had almost forgotten. I closed my eyes and let the music lead me, my only reality consisting of the vibrations in the chinrest and the tension of the strings beneath my fingertips. Effortlessly, the notes of Tartini's great masterpiece, "The Devil's Trill Sonata," came to life at my hands. It was pure music, ecstasy coursing through my veins, healing all my wounds—I could hardly feel the cuts now. I felt warm, very warm, comfortable, and complete as the final notes drifted on an unseen wind. I sighed again, finally opening my eyes, lowering the violin.

Mignonette was standing in the doorway, her mouth agape.

My eyes widened and I swallowed, an odd sensation curling in my gut. "M-Mademoiselle Desrosiers… I—"

"Why didn't you tell me?" she whispered, awed—but there something else shinning in her eyes. "Why did you hide your music?"

I shifted under her unyielding gaze. "Mademoiselle…"

But she was not finished, it seemed. "I have never heard 'The Devil's Trill' played so masterfully—the way you played makes me wonder if Tartini didn't confuse God with the Devil!"

Heat claimed my cheeks again for the second time in so many minutes and I coughed. "Thank you, mademoiselle." I smiled somewhat nervously. "I shall remember to play for you more often." Then she smiled and the sunlight didn't seem like such a terrible thing.

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—End Chapter—

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**A/N:** Well, that's the end of chapter two for you. I hope you enjoyed it. Please, _review!_


	4. Shadows

**A/N:** Hmm. . . It's been a while. Sorry. It wasn't getting any new reviews, so I really wasn't going to post any more till it did (I'm wanting five reviews per chapter) but a friend of mine started bugging me for it, so here ya go!

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, not making any money! However, I do own Mignonette—please ask before borrowing.

**Ratings:** PG-13

**Genre:** Angst

**Warnings:** Again, my first chapter fic for PotO…

**Main Characters:** Erik, Nadir, and an OC (Mignonette)

**Additional Notes:** Also, I promise you that Mignonette will _not_ be a Mary Sue—and I am not being over confident—I have my reasons. My beta, Stratagem Blue, and I are working hard to ensure that she will not become one.

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_Be My Shelter_

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_**Chapter 3: **__Shadows_

Sunday came again too soon and she came to me with her hopeful eyes once more, Nadir holding her cloak at the door. I could tell from his gaze that he believed Mignonette's pleading to be in vain; I smirked inwardly. "Monsieur Erik," she began, her delicate fingers twisting the sleeves of her modest dress—one of the many I had bought her after arriving at Nadir's. She never noticed when she began to twist her sleeves, but I suspected that she had somehow picked up the unseemly habit from Nadir. "Shall you be joining us this fine day? There will be no picnic, I'm afraid, but—"

"Mademoiselle," I interrupted, bowing as I kissed her hand. "I believe that I would be honored to join you today." Her eyes widened in surprise and she gasped softly—behind her, Nadir seemed just as startled, if not more so, and I smiled mischievously behind my mask, feeling like a child once more. "Furthermore," I continued, straightening and producing a wicker basket from what seemed like thin air. "You need not worry about a picnic, as I have prepared one for us. Now, shall we be off?"

It was a moment before she remembered herself and curtsied with a foolish grin. "Why of course, good Monsieur." She took the arm I offered and my nerves lessened somewhat.

Nadir was still staring at Mignonette and I, and I took it upon myself to jolt him back to reality with a glare. He jumped a little but recovered quickly and with enough poise about him to open the door for us. Mignonette laughed slightly and stared up at me—almost in awe—as she clung to my arm. The sunlight was bright and it took all my will not to turn on heel and return to the house that instant. In fact, I was reasonably certain that Mignonette's presence at my side was the only thing—aside from Christine—that could ever draw me, willing, into the wretched sunlight that I so hated. Thankfully, my mask shielded my eyes from the worst of the glare and my dress coat and cape were quite sufficient enough to hide my white hands.

My eyes wandered to Mignonette as our small caravan made its slow way down the Rue Rivoli to the Rue St. Florentin. She looked so much more alive in the sunlight—unlike myself, as the sunlight merely made me look all the more deceptively frail and dead by comparison. I smiled; she looked beautiful. Behind me, I was aware of Nadir's suspicious gaze. _How amusing,_ I thought. _What must he think of this?_

"Daroga," I snapped suddenly, startling him by throwing my voice to his shoulder. "It is not polite to stare. You are making Erik nervous."

I heard him cough and soon he was walking next to me. "This is quite odd for you Erik—what has changed your mind about morning walks in the sunlight?" he asked, sending a pointed look in Mignonette's direction. Mignonette, however, was enjoying the sights in the shop windows and did not seem to have heard Nadir.

I snorted. "Why, nothing, daroga. I simply felt that a picnic would be refreshing on such a picturesque day." I smirked at his semi-frustrated sigh. I knew quite well what answer he had been hoping to wheedle out of me, and I took some small pleasure from withholding it. The game would be no fun if it ended too soon, after all.

At length, we arrived at a small park on the banks of the Seine. It was mercifully devoid of human life, but birds were another story entirely. Bird-song filled the air, and the warm June daylight was a far cry from May's horribly wet and cold nights. We spread out our soft blanket underneath a willow tree on the bank, and the new spring grass cushioned us as we sat and looked out over the waters. After our lunch was devoured, I amused Mignonette and Nadir for a time using a flower and a few vocal tricks and the like. Mignonette enjoyed it immensely and I found that, when I moved on to legerdemain, she became entranced with my hands—perhaps more so than Christine had been with my voice—and her eyes followed my every move. However, we were all content, in the end, to just stare at the river and talk amiably.

Nadir had reclined back on the hill, his hands behind his head; he sighed. "This park is always so peaceful," he murmured. "Truly one of my favorite spots in the city."

I snorted. "Really? I would have thought it was the opera house that was your favorite, as often as I find you lingering on the premises."

He laughed, craning his head back to raise an eyebrow at me. "You know I only go there to keep my eyes on you, old friend."

Mignonette frowned a little and looked between Nadir and myself. "Monsieur Erik? Do you work at the opera?" she asked innocently. It was only then that I realized my mistake in mentioning the opera.

I nearly answered with the truth, she had so startled me with her unexpected question. As it were, however, I managed to explain that I was somewhat of a secret adviser to the management. Her emerald eyes still followed my every move, and I could sense that she hadn't entirely believed my lie. And, whereas the attention had flattered me previously, it was beginning to grate on my already frayed nerves. "Do I _interest_ you, child?" I snapped after a long silence with her eyes probing all of my movements. "I wonder, what is it you must think of me? Yes, I live at the Opera Garnier—is that what you wish to know? That it is _my_ 'notes' to those fools whom you call managers that decide _everything?_ Well, _ma petit_, is that it?" She had shrunk back, her eyes wide and watching my hands. It was as though she feared I would strike her… _But I would never…_ It was only then that I realized my hands had curled into fists. I relaxed them to hands once more, in cold horror of what they—my murderer's hands—had done without my permission. I looked back at Mignonette with something akin to disbelief.

"Monsieur Erik?" she whispered. "I-I didn't mean to upset you. Please, forgive my impertinent questions—I meant nothing by them." The girl surprised me. Again with those fine manners—nothing like what a common _prostituée_ would have, and yet, how was it possible that such manners were bestowed upon an unwed, expecting mother? It was not the usual thing at the time, and never very fashionable. At any other time I would have picked this intriguing woman apart but I was too preoccupied with my traitorous hands.

As it were, I got to my feet, my hands clenched in the fabric of my cloak. I did not dare to look at Nadir or Mignonette. "No, mademoiselle; forgive _me_. I believe that I need to…to get some air. You may return without me, if you wish."

I did not wait for any replies; I took my leave then and went off a ways to a small garden surrounded by tall, thick lilac bushes. The lilacs and other, smaller flowers surrounded the perimeter and their sweet intoxicating scent calmed me somewhat—as well as reminding me of home with the shade they provided. I stood in these shadows and watched the people drift by in their own warm currents, contented and happy, oblivious and unaware that I was floundering in my own personal Styx. They never knew how close to a monster they were passing. But then, I preferred it that way and I was mostly glad for my shadow-chains. They were my comfort.

I glanced at Mignonette and Nadir from the corner of my eye—when they finally left, I would follow them at a distance to be sure of their safety before perhaps visiting the Cimetière des Innocents or even the great Notre Dame, if I felt adventurous enough. However, I could see Nadir looking worriedly my way—Mignonette as well. I ignored them as best I could, but a small seed of guilt had taken root and stirred slightly with every concerned glance from the pair. They reminded me of Marie Perrault—and the moment her name crossed my mind, I was lost to memory. I could remember her kindness, though it had been fearful and timid. And her hands, those gentle, trembling hands that had bandaged my own so long ago. She was dead now, surely, but her face—almost more so than my mother's—was locked forever in the vaults of my memory. The sounds of nearby footsteps pulled me from my memories of Marie Perrault. Instinctually, I shrank further into the shadows; it was only Mignonette, however—still, I stayed where I was, none too eager to speak with anyone. She looked for me, her delicate hands on her abdomen, and it took her a moment to find me, but she smiled a little when she did.

"Monsieur Erik?"

I sighed, unfurling reluctantly from the shadows. "Mademoiselle, you should be returning to the daroga's flat—it is not safe at night." I didn't look at her, turning instead to the Seine.

"I'm sorry," she whispered suddenly. Still, I did not look at her. "I didn't realize the opera was such a difficult thing for you to speak of."

Now my eyes did find her and my temper simmered hot beneath my flesh. "So I suppose the damned daroga has told you everything? About Christine, and the chandelier—the damn vicomte and his brother, Philippe!"

"No." Her voice was infinitely soft, her emerald eyes sad. And yet, somehow there was not a hint of pity in her gaze. "No, but he started to—I stopped him. I would rather hear it from you, if I hear it at all."

I closed my eyes, sinking down to the small bench in the quaint garden's corner. My hands found my mask and gingerly felt it, all smoothness and cold. "I should return to the opera," I muttered. "I should have returned weeks ago." Mignonette said nothing, and I took a shuddering breath. "I should have returned that night I found you—I should have returned once you were safe with Nadir."

"But you didn't."

My teeth clenched. "No, I didn't. I'm a dreadful man—a monster really—and I should learn to keep away from innocent things like you. I am only an old Opera Ghost after all, and Lord knows I should return to my haunt, my decadent _tomb_ in the filthy cellars." I do not know why I confessed my "profession" to her—perhaps to drive her away, or maybe to save myself the pain of parting—I simply do not know. I held my breath, tense and waiting for her to flee. But there was only the silence that stretched for a piece of eternity.

Finally, she sighed. "That must be fascinating," she murmured hesitantly as she sat next to me on the stone bench. "To be able to do anything you want, whenever you want." I could hear her smile. "At least, you are never lacking in operas and music," she said lightly. "Or surprises."

I shook my head. "You still don't understand, do you, you _foolish_ little _girl?_" My eyes were trained on the crushed and trampled petals of a fallen lilac. "I am a _murderer!_ Most certainly not who such a woman as yourself ought to be associating with!"

She laughed outright at that and I turned to see her pale lips turned up in a rueful smile. "Such a woman as myself?" she repeated slowly. "You mean an unwed, pregnant whore? At least, I am no better than a whore for conceiving this bastard child." Her sigh was quiet as the wind, as she placed her hand on mine. "I have said it before, Monsieur: I have known worse men than you, and truthfully, I am no better myself. Blood stains all hands, and mine are no different from yours. I am just as much an outcast as you are."

I smiled ironically—still, something tugged at the back of my mind, but I ignored it, too engrossed in the feeling of Mignonette's hand on my own. I leaned back on the bench, and squeezed her hand gently in mine. "Ah, mademoiselle, how is it that you always know what to say to brighten my dreadfully dark spirits?"

With an air of long friendship, Mignonette giggled and leaned against me, closing her eyes halfway contentedly. "I haven't the faintest idea, Monsieur. You are really quite impossible," she replied at last and we sat there, staring out at the Seine, its waters dyed all the colors of roses and flame and shadow.

I was entirely cured of my melancholy before Mignonette broke the comfortable calm. "Monsieur? May I beg a favor of you?"

Curiosity piqued my interest and I glanced down. She seemed to be concentrating on some far off point in space now, her eyes narrowed and utterly focused. A writhing began in my gut but I answered against my better judgment. "You may, mademoiselle."

She swallowed as though her words would choke her otherwise. "Monsieur, as you know, my…my child has no father to speak of and I do not wish that my child be alone with only an old spinster mother, so you see…" My pulse increased and my stomach's writhing only worsened as I considered where this 'favor' was heading. "I would be honored if you would care for the child—_my_ child—should anything happen to me. It would give me some small comfort."

The air seemed to still around us and I released her hand. "Mademoiselle, I believe that you are making a hasty decision. Perhaps you should think on it a while longer—"

"But Monsieur Erik—I _have_ thought on it—dearly so!—and I can think of no better replacement, should something happen!" Her fingers had wrapped around my arm by then, and her face was white and drawn and so very_ desperate_; her eyes held a frantic, pleading look—something seconds away from wild panic. "Please!" And then, quieter, "_Please._"

Anxiety welled in my gut and I turned to the Seine again, unable to bear those pleading emerald eyes. I bit my lip. "Mademoiselle…" I sighed. "Come," I murmured, getting to my feet and holding a hand out for her. "There will be time to discuss this further tomorrow, and I must think on it." Mignonette did not move. She was staring at my hand with those same terror-stricken, pleading eyes and it was a long moment before she was able to shake herself and take my hand.

"Of course," she whispered softly. "As you wish, Monsieur."

Nadir had just finished packing the wicker basket when we reached him; he looked up to greet us, but took but a glance at Mignonette and knew that something had changed. Thankfully, he wisely decided to hold his tongue until he could berate me in private, away from the lady's tender ears. She abandoned my hand for Nadir's arm and I could not help but feel a little less balanced and warm as I followed a few feet behind on the streets, to the Rue de Rivoli. It was no doubt trying for Nadir to wait so long before confronting me on Mignonette's new and brooding mood, but he managed it, and Mignonette was safely asleep and out of earshot before he began.

"What did you do?" he demanded. "What did you say to her?"

"The truth and nothing more, daroga."

He snorted. "You told her what you do at the Garnier?" He shook his head. "Of the murders?"

The curtains of his flat stood open and provided me with a pleasant view of the Rivoli, which I took advantage of. I was unnerved by the mix of disappointment and accusation in his jade eyes. "Yes," I finally answered. "Yes, all of it—except Christine."

I have no doubt that he frowned, but I never looked to see. "And that caused her such a black mood?"

"No." I shifted uneasily, my fingers already beginning to run the scale of the organ in the air. "No…that was not it…"

A carriage clattered down the Rue, and I could see that the brindle mare—a beautiful illustration of her species—was mincing gingerly on her left fore hoof. _A rock in her hoof…_ I thought absently as Nadir's frustration built behind me. _If the driver does not notice it soon, she'll be marked for dead—after one false step…_ Nadir, normally a patient man, could take no more then. "Then what did?" he snapped, irritable with my silence and answer.

I closed my eyes. "She asked me to…to act as the child's father, should anything happen to her."

Silence permeated the room, and in the silence I felt the writhing in my gut turn to pain and begin to worsen. I knew that I had gone deathly white beneath my mask. I had never known my father—I had never even _seen_ the man. In truth, I had hardly known my mother. Yes, I had known her name—Madeleine—her age, her _face_, all the trivialities one learns from a first meeting, but nothing more. Never anything more. In the nine or so years that I lived under her roof, I had never learned her favorite flower, her favorite food—nothing. It was as though she hadn't really had a face—as though she had not been alive. As though she had not existed. And so I supposed that I had no mother, that I had been spawned of the dark and there I would live out my eternity—and so my life had been until that night.

I heard Nadir's intake of breath; it was sharp, like a knife. "What…did you tell her?"

My dry laugh must have startled him, just as it startled me. I had never realized what a horrid sound it was, soft and dead. "I told her she should not make such hasty decisions." I was trembling again as I put my hand to my mask, cradling my face as I shook. "I… She begged, daroga—she seemed so frightened of something! She begged, and I told her that, perhaps, we should both consider the matter in the morning. Daroga, I have never feared a dawn more!" I felt sick, weak suddenly, and I held onto the window frame for support, my hand still on my mask.

"What are you going to do?" Nadir asked quietly.

I rounded on him, grasping at the lapels of his coattails. I shook him, his hands flying to my wrists. I was hardly aware that he cried my name. "Haven't you been listening, daroga? Erik does not know!" Then I was only clinging to him, on my knees as the frightened child I had never been given the chance to be. "Erik does not know…"

The next morning I was a nervous wreck inside, though I fought to maintain a collected outward appearance. I was playing an almost shaky rendition of Jules Massenet's "Méditation" from_ Thaïs_ on the old violin when Mignonette came to me, hard determination and the question in her emerald eyes.

"Monsieur Erik," she started, but stopped when I held up my hand for silence.

I was shaking—indeed, I had not stopped shaking all night, though Nadir had done his best to calm me—as I faced her, my throat slowly constricting. _"Oaths are a net to catch gulls with…"_

But this was a promise I could not dismiss; a promise that could not—would not—be broken. "Mademoiselle, I have decided." She tensed, her lithe hands gripping at her stomach. I closed my eyes, taking another breath to force my half-formed fears to calm. "Although I do not believe that it is necessary, I will do as you have asked—should anything happen."

She swallowed, her eyes shinning with tears of relief. She embraced me, her slender fingers wrapping around loosely my left hand (in which I still held the violin), the others resting on my right arm as she leaned her head against my chest. Her stomach brushed mine and I could feel the life there—the life that I was now the "father" of. With my right hand on her back, I pulled her closer. An unbreakable promise.

"Thank you, Erik."

What had I done?

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—End Chapter—

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**A/N:** What has he done, indeed? Again, I promise that there will be _no_ romantic relationship between Erik and Mignonette! Now, I hope that you've enjoyed this chapter. Please, _review!_


	5. The Danse Macabre

**A/N:** Well, _finally_ the five reviews per chapter rule has been fulfilled. Here's your new chapter. I have a feeling this one'll get reviews faster. . .

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, not making any money! However, I do own Mignonette—please ask before borrowing.

**Ratings:** PG-13

**Genre:** Angst/Humor

**Warnings:** Again, my first chapter fic for PotO…

**Main Characters:** Erik, Nadir, and an OC (Mignonette)

**Additional Notes:** Still promising that Mignonette is _not_ a Mary Sue. Still have reasons why…at least, reasons other than the disturbing age gap (chasm, really)... My beta, Stratagem Blue, and I are working hard to ensure that she will not become one. Also, the superscripts didn't work, but I've put the numbers for the corresponding notes at the bottom in parenthesis.

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_Be My Shelter_

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_**Chapter 4: **__The Danse Macabre_

In the days following the Promise, I began to notice a change in Mignonette's demeanor. The pregnancy had always caused her moods to fluctuate abruptly. But this was different; it was slow, gradual, and genuine. The pregnancy had almost nothing to do with it. She began to read with me for longer periods in the afternoon—she and Nadir had taken to playing games of chess and backgammon in the mornings, as Mignonette could no longer be on her feet for prolonged periods of time due to her condition. Constantly now, she would ask for me to play a libretto from _La Prophète_, or an aria from _Faust_ on the violin. I would oblige and the hours of sunlight would pass away with the vibrant chords and trills.

But always there were the touches. They were little touches, hardly more than a soft breeze against my skin, but in them I could sense such fear, such anxiety as I had ever known. She would brush her fingers against mine when I read, or touch my arm so lightly while I played. Such a foreboding sadness in those little touches! I found it all very troubling. It was as though she was reassuring her mind that I was there, that I could be trusted to stay. It was as though every touch was the Promise again. She was slowly taking all of me with that Promise.

Nadir had noticed the change as well and he could clearly see the effect it was having on me. His glances, the worry always just beneath the surface of those jade eyes, were no better than the touches. My nerves began to fray and I was forced to retreat to the guestroom for hours at a time to find any amount of peace. When I retreated to solitude for a full day, I knew it was time that I returned to the opera house—if only for a night to collect my twenty-thousand francs. I decided that it would be best to tell Mignonette and Nadir the next morning. I did not wish Mignonette to suffer any undue worry on my behalf.

Mignonette was enjoying her second game of chess against Nadir when I entered the room (she had won the first, just as she would win the second—Nadir was never any good at chess). She looked up at me with a smile, a quick greeting, before checking Nadir's king cleanly.

"Checkmate," I muttered.

Nadir frowned at the board. "What is it, Erik?"

A faint smile crossed my lips—Nadir knew me too well sometimes. I shook my head, turning to Mignonette. "Mademoiselle, will you be all right without me for a night or so?"

The smile crumbled from her face like so many ashes and guilt began to twist in my chest. "Where are you going? Is something wrong?" She chewed her lip, her eyes wide and searching. "You've been so quiet lately, Monsieur Erik—are you all right?"

I chuckled softly, patting the top of her head with my gloved hand. "Yes, yes. I'm fine, mademoiselle—I am simply not accustomed to such long periods in the delightful company of others." She smiled sheepishly. "Besides, I must return to the opera to collect my fee from those doddering fools they call managers."

"You're going to the opera house?" Mignonette inquired, her head tilting to the side. I nodded; she began to fiddle with the pawn in her hand, turning it over and over with a sad smile. Behind her, Nadir raised his eyebrows, nodding his head toward her—the message was clear. I sighed.

"Would you like to come for a performance, mademoiselle?" I asked, my hands clasped behind my back.

The effect was immediate; her eyes brightened and she looked at me with disbelief mingled with hope. "Monsieur? Really?"

"Of course," I reassured her. "And you may come as well, daroga. Come to Box Five tomorrow night—they will be performing _Faust_, no doubt."

Nadir had gotten to his feet now; he was pouring three cups of tea, adding sugar to his and Mignonette's and lemon to the cup meant for me. "Are you coming with us then, Erik?" he asked nonchalantly.

Mignonette's lower lip pushed forward every so slightly in the perfect pout that every woman learns in her girlhood—and it struck me that, no matter her appearance, she was still a child on the cusp of giving up all selfish pleasures. She huffed softly as Nadir handed her a cup. "Please come, Monsieur—it would be so grand to see my first opera—_Faust_, no less!—at the Opera Garnier with the infamous Opera Ghost himself!"

I could not help but smile at her youthful vigor and innocent favor-mongering. "Fine, fine. I will walk you to the Garnier and meet you inside—I shall also instruct Madame Giry to bring two additional stools and programs." She positively beamed, all traces of the pout gone now.

"Thank you, Monsieur!"

"…_Thank you, Erik…"_

I nodded, swallowing. "I shall return to escort you to the opera house at seven, promptly. Please, do be ready by then, mademoiselle."

She eagerly agreed and I contented myself with listening to Nadir explain how he had come to the opera, and how he had first been smitten with it. I smiled when he had finished, setting my now empty teacup on the small end table.

"I suppose that it is time I return to the opera house to set things in order." I bowed to them, kissing Mignonette's hand as I did—her flesh was pleasantly warm beneath my cold lips. "I shall see you tomorrow, at seven. Farewell."

"Farewell, Monsieur Erik," she said, and smiled. That smile lit up the darkness of my heart as I walked the Parisian streets to my opera house.

I found the Garnier in much the same condition as I had left it, with the dormitories of the _corps de ballet_ still gossiping about the mysterious disappearance of Christine Daaé three months before. I returned to my home in the fifth cellar and reveled in the solitude for a time before sighing as I remembered that there were notes to be written, one to Madame Giry, and one each to those bumbling managers (I had already forgotten their names). I wrote them quickly and delivered them faster, happy when the task was done and that I was alone again.

My solitude refreshed me and I spent the hours composing, reading, and above all _thinking_. I could not, it seemed, stop my thoughts from wandering always back to Mignonette. I was startled to realize exactly how little I knew about the petite woman—the daroga knew more about _me_ than I knew about her! All I knew was that she was frightened of something—or someone—and I could not even begin to fathom what it was. Or who. She was a puzzle, that woman, and one I had a sinking feeling that I would never solve. She was nothing like Christine, and I did not love her, but I had begun to care for her. Her eyes seemed to always be in my head, and I could not escape their terror-stricken, pleading gaze. What had frightened her so? It was as though she _expected_ something to happen…but _what? _These ponderings made me restless, and I stalked my domain like some fierce predator, my eyes seeking my next prey. A great many small accidents occurred that day—oh, nothing too serious, just a ghostly reflection in the mirror, a disembodied voice in the hall, and a falling scenery or two.

Truthfully I was almost relieved when seven o'clock came around and I made my way down the darkened streets to the Rue de Rivoli. In fact, I was positively _giddy_ for some reason—perhaps it was the gift I had bought Mignonette that was now hidden in my cloak's hidden pocket. I smiled to myself as I imagined her awed face, those emerald eyes shinning with wonder instead of terror…

As I neared Nadir's flat, I could make out muffled voices from inside—the daroga and Mignonette. My smile disappeared, however, when I heard Mignonette's scream break the pleasant night. I broke into a run and tripped the thin wire I had attached to the window's lock in the guestroom. I entered through the window and hurried toward the sounds of Mignonette's cries with an urgency I had rarely felt before.

_Oh, God,_ I thought frantically, _What if it's the child? What if something's wrong and she's gone into…but it's still two weeks too early for that!_

When I turned the corner, where I found the pair in Mignonette's room, I could do nothing but stare, dumbstruck, at the scene. Mignonette was sobbing as she threw random odds and ends at Nadir, who was dodging, though not always managing to escape the flying objects. I relaxed as I realized it was merely a pregnancy-induced tantrum and nothing more. They had been occurring more and more frequently as of late and even I was not immune to her spontaneous outbursts—the last occurrence had left me nursing a bruised head and an even more bruised ego while Nadir laughed. I smirked maliciously as I decided it was high time to return the favor. Nadir's head snapped in my direction when he heard me laugh. Unfortunately, however, he looked away at the precise moment Mignonette threw a metal tray, which in turn collided squarely with his head. He cried out and doubled over, cursing in Persian under his breath.

"Now, now, daroga," I chided. "Is that any way to speak in front of a lady?" He shot me a withering glare and I ignored him, turning warily to Mignonette instead. "Is everything all right, mademoiselle?"

She sobbed, shuddering. "Oh, Monsieur Erik! He said such horrible things to me!" I raised an eyebrow at Nadir, who merely rolled his eyes, rubbing his injured skull. Mignonette flopped down on the bed, her hands fisting in her new dress. "He was so cruel, Monsieur!"

"What did he say that upset you so?"

Her face twisted and large tears slipped down her already red cheeks. "_He said my dress made me look fat!_"

I gritted my teeth—it was all I could do to keep from laughing. I turned to "glare" at Nadir (who was sulking in the corner). "Daroga!" I snapped, "Is this true?"

He looked genuinely appalled. "No! Of course not!" He floundered for a moment, trying to defend himself. "I merely said that, once the child is born, we'll get her an even prettier dress!" This confession only elicited another wild sob from Mignonette.

I stared at Nadir. How had he ever survived when Rookheeya had been pregnant with Reza? I shook my head. "Mademoiselle, I shall remedy this breach of conduct—come, daroga; punishment shall be served here." Nadir's eyes widened in confusion at my words.

On the bed, Mignonette sniffed, looking at me with a surprised expression. "Monsieur Erik?" she asked quietly.

"Well, should he be punished, or not, mademoiselle?" She did not answer right away and I made to grab Nadir by the scruff of his neck.

"Wait!" cried Mignonette, her hands clasped at her chest. "It's all right—Monsieur Khan didn't really mean it—did you, Monsieur Khan?" Nadir shook his head, somewhat bewildered. "See! It was just a misunderstanding! Let him go."

I smiled. "Of course, mademoiselle." She sighed in relief and offered me a sheepish smile; I turned serious then and looked her over with a critical eye. "Now, wash your face, mademoiselle, and we can be on our way. I shall not take you to the opera looking as though you've only just woken up."

Mignonette gasped—no doubt she had forgotten about the performance in the heat of her tantrum—and shooed Nadir and I into the hall. We shared a glance and chuckled at the young woman's unpredictability. We retreated to the sitting room to wait for her and Nadir turned to me, a curiosity about his face.

"How did you get in, Erik?" he asked, leaning back in his armchair. "All the doors are locked…"

I smirked. "I have my little tricks, daroga—don't pretend to think you know them all." And that was explanation enough, for he nodded and turned to the ashes of the fire.

All of fifteen minutes later, Mignonette appeared at the doorway—Nadir and I could only stare. Despite the bulge of her stomach, Mignonette managed to look absolutely radiant. Her dress was hand-woven silk dyed darker than the night itself, her sleeves ruffled at the shoulders before flaring into long, nearly transparent sleeves that reached past her hands, while the dress's bodice was fitted exactly to her new measurements and was ruffled somewhat as well. The dress's high collar, an emerald broach at the base, looked simply magnificent and complimented her thin white neck beautifully. Her raven hair was half-up in a bun, the rest framing her face, with a string of perfect black pearls threaded through.

I swallowed and Nadir sat up in his chair. "Mademoiselle," I murmured, "You look stunning."

She smiled shyly. "Thank you Monsieur Erik."

Getting to my feet, I bowed, extending my arm. "Shall we, mademoiselle?"

Her laugh sounded like the bells of Heaven and I suddenly felt that such a bloodstained creature as myself should not touch _le grand corbeau de l'dieux_—the Raven of the gods(1). I shook the feeling as she took my arm, blushing like a school girl. And so, the three of us left together, Nadir and I in our opera wear, and Mignonette in her radiant dress. I had ordered a carriage before I had left the Garnier, and it was waiting outside for us. Mignonette smiled up at me as I helped her into the carriage before climbing in myself, followed by Nadir.

"To the opera—the Rue Scribe side," I directed and the carriage lurched forward.

Beside me, Mignonette began to giggle; I raised an eyebrow behind my mask at her antics. "Oh, I'm so excited!" she gushed, hugging my arm before remembering herself and blushing furiously. "Forgive me, Monsieur Erik—I just can't help myself."

"That's quite all right, mademoiselle."

Nadir smiled quietly to himself, his jade eyes fixed out the window. I frowned at his expression but decided to just put the old fool out of my mind for the time being. Mignonette was fidgeting beside me, her delicate fingers tracing small patterns on her stomach, a wistful smile on her lips, as she hummed an old French lullaby. Her humming seemed to be the only sound in the carriage and I could feel it in my bones, but it was not enough. I closed my eyes, dulling every other sense until that slow, melodic tune consumed me, swirling around my mind and intoxicating my blood. Its simplicity enthralled me. Quite suddenly I realized that I _knew_ this tune. I had known it for years. _She_ used to sing it to the statue—my mother. I could hear her words, the sweet lilt of her delicate soprano as she rocked the stone so lovingly in the cradle I had once occupied. The words were so simple—but I used to sit for hours and pretend—_wish_—that she was singing them to me. I would hope but I had never dared to allow myself to believe… Somehow, her voice found me in that carriage and I heard her familiar lilt.

"_C'est la poulette grise, qui pond dans l'église._" Her voice had reminded me then of a stream—a crystal brook that could heal every hurt, if only I could touch it once… "_Elle va pondre un petit coco pour son petit qui va fair dodiche! Elle va pondre un petit coco pour son petit qui va fair dodo; dodiche, dodo…__(2)_"

I could feel two pairs of eyes on me when I at last opened my own. Mignonette was staring at me, puzzled, while Nadir had merely raised an eyebrow in curiosity. I frowned. "Mademoiselle?" I muttered, my fingers drumming on my thigh impatiently. "What, _ma petit_, is so fascinating?"

She blushed, her gaze dropping to her hands—now fiddling on her stomach—and smiled wistfully. "Your voice, Monsieur Erik—you sing beautifully. Your voice has truly been blessed." She sighed. "I suppose you could put any child to sleep, with a voice such as that."

I felt my face grow warm beneath my mask. _I sing beautifully?_ I realized then that I had sung my mother's words aloud. I looked away, strangely ill at ease. "Thank you, mademoiselle."

Nadir, from his seat, was still watching me intently with his eyes carved of jade. "Where ever did you learn such a _quaint_ lullaby, Erik? It doesn't seem your taste. How did you come by it?"

"I learned it long ago as a child, daroga," My voice was cold, inviting no more questions. "If it pleases you to know." He drew back, holding his hands up in surrender. The carriage jerked to a halt then and I beheld my beloved opera house through the window at last. Mignonette, beside me, seemed a child once more. Her eyes were bright as she took in the architecture. I helped her from the chaise, my fedora low over my face; she paused for a moment on the step and giggled, lifting my fedora slightly.

"Mademoiselle?"

Her eyes sparkled in the flames of the setting sun as she smiled. "Thank you, Monsieur Erik." I felt the gentle press of her lips as she kissed the cheek of my mask. For the second time in so many minutes, my face was hot with blood and was no doubt red beneath the mask. Mignonette had taken Nadir's arm again, but I remained where I was, rooted to the spot with shock.

Nadir seemed pleased as he looked over his shoulder. "We shall be waiting for you in the box, Erik."

It was not until they turned the corner and left my sight was I able to shake myself from my stupor. I pulled my fedora lower still. I stared after them a moment longer—I would have given anything in that instant to be allowed to walk through the _Grand Foyer_ or up the stairs of the _Grand Escalier_ and see her glittering beside me against the gilded background—before retreating to the iron gates and letting myself in. _Where,_ I wondered with a bitter smile, _was Master Mephistopheles when he was needed?_ I shook my head. I made my way quickly through the passageways and labyrinthine corridors that I had hidden throughout my domain at a fast clip. Ignoring all other thoughts and distraction, I became the phantom once more in all my former glory. I felt at home here, now, knowing that Mignonette was nearby. I reached my hollow pillar and I had nearly pressed the trigger when Nadir's voice stopped me; it was low and anxious, as though he did not want anyone to overhear—as though he did not want _me_ to overhear.

"Mademoiselle Desrosiers," he whispered; I could see him pacing behind Mignonette, in the second row. "Please, mademoiselle, what are your intentions in choosing Erik? Certainly you have a more qualified relative who can care for the child…"

Her sigh was a tired one. "Monsieur Khan, I've already told you—Monsieur Erik is kind, so much kinder than anyone else I know. I trust him, Monsieur—I'd trust him with my life." There was a rustle of fabric as Mignonette shifted positions. Her voice was so much softer when next she spoke. "Besides, I have no family."

"But still," he persisted, "There _must_ be someone else!" He stopped suddenly; his back was facing me, and so I could not see his expression. "You would entrust your child's safety to the hands of a murderer, Mademoiselle Desrosiers?"

"Yes." Her answer was firm and I shifted uneasily in my hidden place. "He reminds me of my grandfather. _Grand-père_ was a musician as well, you see, and he played wonderfully—he was always so kind…"

Nadir shook his head. "Mademoiselle! He is unstable!" I could hear fear and truth in Nadir's words. "No matter who he reminds you of at times, he is not your _grand-père_." She said nothing. I could see Nadir fighting to find the best way to convince her; he ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Mademoiselle, Erik is quite mad—_he is not safe!_"

I closed my eyes, letting the indignant anger flood my senses, but I did not move. I couldn't. _"He is not safe!"_ I leaned my forehead against the pillar's wall. It was true; I _was_ mad. I had always known, on some level, I suppose, but I had never truly believed it. I had laughed it off, as though the idea was no more than a highly amusing taunt. Nadir was right, of course—he usually is. I was mad and most decidedly _not safe_. I swallowed the bile in the back of my throat. _Why would anyone ever choose me?_

"I trust him," Mignonette said, "Implicitly." Her voice had a quiet note of steel and finality that effectively closed the conversation.

I swallowed. _She…trusts me? __**Why?**_ Nadir said nothing and merely sighed, sitting at last in his seat on Mignonette's right. After a moment or two, he began to fidget, pulling out his pocket watch and checking it before glancing around the box. _He's looking for me…_ Carefully, with long years of heard-learned practice, I folded up my feelings and stuffed them in my heart's pocket. I pressed the trigger and stepped into the box.

Mignonette turned to me, smiling happily the moment I alerted them to my presence; she gestured me over, patting the empty seat to her left. "Monsieur Erik! You have arrived just in time—I believe they are about to begin."

Indeed they were; as if on cue, the gaslights dimmed and the overture began. Mignonette closed her eyes and began to sway, her hands moving, weaving through the air in time with the music. She imitated the music, giving physical motion to something entirely cerebral. Beside her, Nadir was deep in thought, his aging face creased with wrinkles as he concentrated his sole efforts to one problem. His jade eyes were glazed as he sought his answer, his reason or hers, for I've no doubt that the question that plagued him was Mignonette's answer as well his own question he had posed against her. As I sat down on the old familiar chair, I too was thinking about his question. She_ trusted _me? She trusted _me_ on the sole reason that I reminded her of her _grand-père_—a foolish reason to trust anyone. And yet she did. _She trusts me._ A cold pride curled around my heart.

On the stage, Faust had begun to read his tome, waiting patiently for his entrance. "_Rien!__(3)_" he sang, and the tale began to weave itself around us. Mignonette watched, enthralled, as Faust lamented his "lack" of knowledge. She gasped softly as she watched him put the cup of poison to his lips and she sighed in honest relief when he lowered it at the name of God.

"_Dieu! Dieu! Dieu! Mais, ce Dieu que peut-il pour moi? __Me rendra-t-il l'amour, le jeunesse et la foi?__" (4)_

Yes, God… That was a subject that had hovered at the edge of my mind for years, since I was young and Father Mansert had preached to me of the Lord Almighty. I had wondered over it many times in the Gypsy camp and again in Giovanni's care. However, as I looked at Nadir, I realized that my atheistic views had never been challenged more than by the closest thing I had ever had to a friend. Day in and day out in Persia I had watched him grovel to a city hundreds of miles away and to a god that might not even exist. Even as Reza drew his final breath in his arms, he still believed, whispering, "There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his Prophet." How, I had wondered so many times since, could a faith be so strong? How could anyone serve an unseen deity? And in the asking of such a question, I was forced to ask who it was that _I_ served.

"_Ma voici!__(5)_" reverberated through the theatre as Mephistopheles made his entrance. The man was smiling, his visage the perfect countenance of refined confidence in mischief. _Satan_ had at last arrived.

And so, the bargain was struck and the scene changed to a lively fair. Mignonette laughed with the joyous music, clapping her hands softly in time with the melody; she even mouthed a few words of the repeated chorus. I smiled as I watched her, all thoughts of gods and devils melting from my mind. It seemed to me as I watched her that she would have gladly waltzed with the airy tune if her condition had not kept her from it. Nadir, beside her, had noticed her behavior as well and wore a look to match my own. Mignonette was as a child. I do not believe I have ever enjoyed the fair scene more; and so it continued until Marguerite emerged onto the stage.

Mignonette gasped as the prima donna walked through the song, refusing the hand of Faust. Mignonette's eyes never left the stage as she whispered, "She's _beautiful._"

I chuckled. "Yes," I murmured. "Marguerite must be, to capture the eye of Faust." She blushed and glanced quickly at her hands before returning her attention once more to the opera.

She sighed longingly at Siebel's litany in the garden of Marguerite, and suddenly I wondered—not for the first time—of the man who had taken her innocence (if indeed that were the case). I had not asked again after that afternoon by the lonely window and she had never spoken of him. I wondered if the child's father still lived—perhaps not. After all, hadn't she said her home was destroyed by fire? And that, of course, was assuming that she had been living with him, under some circumstance or another. It was all a mysterious puzzle I would have given anything to solve. I had never before met such an odd woman, and nor do I believe I shall again. Even as Marguerite twittered the "Jewel Song," I wondered, though memories of my sweet, beloved Christine were battling for purchase in my splintered mind. I got to my feet.

"Monsieur Erik?" Mignonette's emerald gaze comforted me somewhat even as it frustrated me. "Where are you going? Is something wrong?" Nadir raised an eyebrow in confusion, a silent question in his eyes.

I waved my hand dismissively. "I must collect my retainer. I…shall see you when the opera has ended. Meet me in the third cellar—and perhaps we shall take tea at my home."

Her eyes—and Nadir's as well—widened. "Your home?" she echoed. "Oh! How wonderful, Monsieur Erik! It would be a pleasure!"

I smiled. "Yes, well, then I must go. I shall see you again soon, mademoiselle." I bowed, kissing her hand reverently; she blushed.

"Would you rather I take her to the lake, Erik?"

Nadir's question gave me pause, and I hesitated before disappearing into the hollow pillar. Darkness claimed my sight for a moment before my eyes adjusted. "No," I said through the false marble. "No; take her to…to Christine's dressing room—you remember the way, daroga? We will go by the Communists' road."

"Of course."

And I took my leave then in time to hear Mephistopheles declare, "_Hélas! cruelle destinée!_(6)"

The first order of business was my handsome retainer of twenty-thousand francs. Madame Giry had, as always, faithfully hid the envelope in the very pocket of the unsuspecting managers. I collected it with ease, thanks in part to the removable floorboards in the managers' office, near the desk. I returned to my home on the lake then and whiled away the time cleaning—something I had neglected to do for a long while. I knew the length of _Faust_ by heart, every word and motion and act imprinted rather permanently in my skull. Every orchestral movement and note seemed second nature to me by now.

My home was spotless by the time the opera ended; in fact, I was rather proud of myself. I left by the Communists' road, going slowly to give Nadir and Mignonette enough time to reach the dressing room. I even stopped to take a drink from the old well to quench my parched throat. Still, I reached the room before Nadir arrived. I waited a good twenty minutes, growing ever more anxious, before I began to search for the pair. My thoughts were crashing headlong into my fears as I hurried down the endless corridors. I found Nadir easily enough. He wasn't too far away and his yells aided my search immensely. He looked frantic as I watched him from my hidden niche; Mignonette was nowhere to be seen, however.

"Daroga!" I hissed, my voice in his ear; he jumped and glanced about for me. "What are you yelling for?"

"_It's Mignonette!_" he said, his tongue fumbling and tripping over itself in his panic. My heart nearly stopped beating and I could no longer hear anything but my own heartbeat and Nadir's words. "Something is wrong—she's gone into labor, but—"

"—It's too soon," I muttered, my worst fears coming to light. "Where is she?"

"In an empty dressing room—third one down from here."

I cursed; there was no entrance into that room beside the hall—and I could not risk exposure. "Move her to Christine's and I will watch her there while you fetch a doctor." He nodded fearfully and I returned to the mirror in Christine's room. A few moments later, Nadir helped a gasping Mignonette to the bed. Mignonette whimpered as a new pain wracked her body and I could see tears glistening on her paper-white cheeks that had been rosy with cheer and health not two hours ago. She clung to Nadir, every movement a battle—the moment the door had closed, I entered, rushing to her side.

"_Mademoiselle!_" I grabbed her hand, quickly checking her pulse as I put a hand to her cheek—she felt cold, and I nearly crumbled. "It will be all right, mademoiselle—the daroga has gone to fetch help."

Her face was drawn and tears continued to push themselves into her eyes. "Erik," she whispered weakly, fearfully, groping for my sleeve. "He's here! _He's here!_"

I frowned, swallowing. "Who, mademoiselle? Who is here?"

Her mouth opened to answer but a harsh cry was all that emerged as a violent convulsion tore through her thin frame. She curled in pain and I could do nothing. I was utterly powerless and that knowledge tore at my heart. She sobbed and her knuckles turned white as her grip on my hand nearly crushed my fingers; I winced but held my tongue. Her pain broke something inside of me and I, too, was crying by the time Nadir warned me of his return with a sharp rap on the door.

Though it broke my heart, I gently pried her hands away, the salt of my tears stinging my eyes. "I will be near, mademoiselle, I swear to you. I will always be near. _Do not fear_." Her eyes pleaded, despite my voice, screaming for me to stay through the pain and I cried all the harder as I closed the mirror behind me.

Nadir entered not a second later and I took a deep breath to calm myself, forcing my hands to stop their trembling. The doctor pushed past Nadir but froze as his hazel eyes found his patient; Mignonette paled further and turned her face away, as though in shame.

The doctor seemed to shake himself from his stupor and he nearly tripped over himself to reach her. "_Mignonette!_" he gasped, clutching her thin hand in his. "God, we thought you for dead!" Nadir and I stared in numb confusion, I behind the mirror and Nadir in the doorway. She looked about to answer but her features twisted in agony and the doctor's eyes widened. "Oh God! You're in labor—but it's too—" He stopped, rounding on Nadir. "We need to get her to my clinic!"

Nadir's eyes narrowed, hard chips of jade that demanded an answer. "Mademoiselle Desrosiers will go nowhere until you explain yourself, _chere docteur_."

"Mademoiselle?" repeated the doctor sharply, confusion marring his young face. "You must be mistaken." Nadir and I frowned in our respective places. _Mistaken?_ The doctor shook his head. "Madame Descoteaux has been married for nearly three years."

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—End Chapter—

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**A/N:** Ah, it seems Mignonette has not been entirely truthful with Nadir and dearest Erik. Married, eh? Or is the doctor lying? We shall see… Please, _review!_ I adore reading nice, long **comments** and **guesses** and **theories!**

Ah, and for the notes in the text, marked by superscripts:

1. _"…le grand corbeau de l'dieux_—the Raven of the gods."—The line is translated in itself, but the meaning may be unclear. In Norse mythology, two ravens, Huginn and Muninn (Thought and Memory), perch on Odin's throne and fly around Earth daily and report the happenings of the world to Odin in Valhalla at night. I sort of interpreted the "Thought" aspect to also mean creativity—Odin was also the god of poetry and wisdom, among other things (Also, this is the only line of French that I translated myself, so it is quite possible that it is wrong).

2. "_C'est la poulette grise, qui pond dans l'église. Elle va pondre un petit coco pour son petit qui va fair dodiche! Elle va pondre un petit coco pour son petit qui va fair dodo; dodiche, dodo…_"—An old French lullaby, "C'est la Poulette Grise." In English: "There is a gray hen who lays in the church. She will lay a pretty little egg for her little one who is going to sleep. She will lay a pretty little egg for her little one who is going to sleep. Sleep, baby sleep"

3. "_Rien!"—_"Nothing!" The first line of the opera _Faust_, by Gounod.

4. "_Dieu! Dieu! Dieu! Mais, ce Dieu que peut-il pour moi? __Me rendra-t-il l'amour, le jeunesse et la foi?"—_Also from _Faust_; "God! God! God! But what can this God of theirs do for me? Will he give me back love, youth and faith?"

5. "_Ma voici!_"—"Here I am!"

6. "_Hélas! cruelle destinée!"_—"Alas, how cruel Fate is!"


	6. Little Lies and the Truth

**A/N:** So. Yes. It has. . .been a while. Sorry about that. RP has sucked up my life. However, I'll keep updating, with the 5 review per chapter rule still applying. So, I'll update again at 25 reviews.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, not making any money! However, I do own Mignonette—please ask before borrowing.

**Ratings:** PG-13

**Genre:** Angst

**Warnings:** Again, my first chapter fic for PotO…

**Main Characters:** Erik, Nadir, and an OC (Mignonette)

**Additional Notes:** Still promising that Mignonette is _not_ a Mary Sue. Still have reasons why…at least, reasons other than the disturbing age gap (chasm, really)...

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_Be My Shelter

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_

_**Chapter 5: **__Little Lies and the Truth_

There was no more opportunity for questions as Mignonette began to scream anew in agony on the bed. The doctor and Nadir sprung into action and somehow managed to carry her out of the opera house with the help of three of the stagehands, Mignonette suspended between them on a sheet. I followed for as long as my passages would allow. I was a wreck, but—thank God!—I had the presence of mind to wait for a few minutes until the commotion died down, before I slipped out the gates of the Rue Scribe. I had heard the doctor give directions to a runner to prepare the clinic for Mignonette's arrival and it seemed that his practice, fortunately, was nearby. It was located on the Rue de Caumartin, two streets over, and I intended to be at Mignonette's side.

The streets, however, were against me that night; they were crowded and full of opera-goers departing from the Garnier. I gritted my teeth as I hid in the shadows. I could not be seen, I could not show my face, I knew—at least, not so close to the Garnier, lest some half-wit managed to connect me with the whispered tales and rumors of the "phantom" which was said to haunt the Paris Opera House. No, that would not do at all… I could not risk discovery, but I refused to break my promise to Mignonette. So help me, I _would_ find a way. I would not abandon her, even now, even amongst the lies. My eyes scanned my surroundings with a growing sense of urgency—they fixed, however, on an unseemly iron ladder nailed to the brick wall of an old building. _The roofs!_ It was perfect, I realized. There would be no one on the roofs and I could move unhindered and unseen. I wasted no more time and I quickly scaled the ladder, breathing easier once my feet settled on the old gray roofing.

I made swift time and I thanked any deity that would hear me that I reached the small clinic shortly. It was an old redbrick building and seemed to lean slightly to one side, as though drunk, but somehow with a smile on its face. The lamps were burning harshly in the rippled panes of cracked glass in the windows, evidence of the occupants' wakefulness. The sign-plaque, done in old, classic calligraphy, read simply, "Baudin, Physician," and it creaked ominously on its cast iron hinges as I neared. A shiver slithered down my spine and I flexed my hands for lack of anything to do with them. I am not certain how long I stared at the creaking sign before I at last put my hand to the burnished brass doorknob.

The interior of the clinic was certainly one of the cleanest places I had ever seen in my life and I suddenly felt out of place and very, very filthy. To one side was a door, which was quite obviously the operating and examining room, and next to it I could see a staircase of dark, aged oak curling up to the second floor—most probably the good doctor's living quarters. To the other side, however, was a small room in which a weak fire glowed in the hearth beneath the mantelpiece and standing there, one hand to the mantel and the other to his forehead, was Nadir.

"Daroga!" He turned to face me, startled but still quite weary. "Where is she?" He sighed and nodded to the operating room; I suddenly felt decidedly ill. He returned his gaze to the flames. "Well?" I snapped, very near to panic. "How is she?"

"I don't know, Erik," he muttered, running a hand through his hair—a sign of severe frustration. "They've been in there since we arrived, and still no word." His voice was hardly a whisper when he added: "Her cries stopped some time ago."

I swallowed as I began to pace to the small room, ignoring the two armchairs near the hearth as a dead numbness began to claim what little warmth I had possessed. Nadir, however, soon abandoned his vigilant post at the mantelpiece and all but fell into one of the chairs. He seemed exhausted and I could easily see the many lines of worry etched deep into his olive-skinned face, even in the dim of the flickering fire. I looked away from him, adrenaline pulsing beneath every inch of my skin. Something deep inside me, broken with pain and fear, screamed for me to protect Mignonette—but there were no enemies. There was nothing for me to fight. All that existed in those small eternities was the silence. The silence seemed to stretch into perpetuity, every second agonizing in its own new way. This waiting was unbearable; even a scream would have been more welcome then than this hollow silence.

The sun had set some time ago and now the darkness had reclaimed all of Paris; I only hoped that Mignonette's eyes had retained their light. She seemed such a creature of the sun that I feared she could not survive this night without her hand in mine, and my every instinct shrieked that I should go to her. My head was becoming so full of screams and apprehension and I groaned. The door of the operating room seemed to beckon to me—I could take it no longer. I lurched toward it with a kind of aching need, my hands as claws raking and tearing at the air, toward her. Nadir was on his tired feet in seconds and his hands found my arms, keeping me from Mignonette.

"Erik, you can't!"

I swung around to face him, baring my teeth. "I shall! I will _not_ abandon her—I promised, daroga!"

Nadir's answer died in his mouth as his gaze fixed on the door behind me. "Doctor Baudin!" I turned to the doctor, electric fear playing along my spine.

"Dr. Abel, please," sighed the man, obviously no older than thirty-five. He was young for a doctor, this pale lad. He was thin as well, all bones and limbs, with pale brown hair and kind hazel eyes. Strain was wearing him thin but he managed a weak smile for us. "Dr. Baudin was my father."

"I care not for your father, _boy_," I growled, through with patience, my fingers twitching at my sides. "How is Mignonette?"

A cloud settled over his face, heavy and dark, and he rubbed the back of his neck, searching vainly for the words he lacked; and all the while, he seemed to shrink from me—from my _appearance_. "Her condition has improved, Monsieur—we were able to stop the contractions. She's resting now."

"And the child?" ventured Nadir, releasing my arm.

Baudin paused, studying Nadir and myself for a moment. "As long as there are no more attacks or fits, then they both have a good chance." His eyes darkened and he seemed troubled. "However, with her history—"

"What history?" I snapped, taking a step toward this pale man that threatened me so.

He looked up, surprise in his hazel eyes. "Her mother—she died giving birth to Mignonette. That sort of complication can run in families." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other uneasily, glancing with the barest hint of fear at me. "She didn't tell you? I warned her of it when I first learned of this pregnancy…"

I could not speak. My mind was reeling and I could not keep my thoughts from scattering like gulls. They flew, swirling in circles around me, just beyond my reach. Always, though, I could see her terrified, pain-filled emerald eyes. She had known this could happen. She had _known_. My heart ached at the thought of losing her; such thoughts invoked such emptiness, such pain… I shuddered, shivering and cold now as I sank to a chair. _She had known, and she had not told me._ Or had she, I wondered as the Promise fluttered in my chest. Had she not warned me with the touches, with those pleading eyes?

Nadir was frowning now, his curiosity having returned with the knowledge of Mignonette's tentative safety. "How long have you known Mignonette?"

My eyes found Baudin and I stared, waiting with a barely contained need for this knowledge. Baudin sighed, going to the mantel, and absently began to toy with the pendulum of the glasswork clock; his mind was obviously years away. "Mignonette… I've known her since she was a child." He smiled sadly. "When her mother died, her father—Monsieur Desrosiers—became her sole relative and provider, which—as you can well imagine—was rather a strain on the poor man, although he was a gentleman. He passed when she was neigh sixteen and in perfect youth, leaving behind for her naught but debts." My hands fisted on the armrests, my teeth grinding. Baudin's gaze fell to the fire and he swallowed dryly. "Her father, before his death, had foreseen this and had arranged a profitable marriage to the son of a well-known tailor when she reached the age of eighteen. Until that time, she lived with my sister—Lydie—and I. Then she married him, and they seemed so content—until these past few months, but I'm sure that was merely strain."

I glanced at Nadir and he nodded; he turned to Baudin and asked the question that I could not. "And her husband? He is dead now, I presume."

Baudin laughed bitterly. "No, no—he is very much alive."

A frown tugged at my lips, a hint of anger beginning to grow in my gut. "Where is he then?" I demanded. "How did she come to be on the streets?"

"I am afraid that I do not know."

A genuine note of regret echoed in Abel Baudin's voice and it did me some little comfort. I got to my feet again, ignoring the shakiness about my knees. "Then what of him? Who is the whelp?"

Baudin snorted, his fear of me having abated somewhat. "A delightful young fop of twenty-seven, and as spoiled as corn on the compost heap," he replied scathingly. "Of course, he has his good points, too. He can be fiercely protective—and he has been searching for Mignonette since she was discovered missing."

"His name, Monsieur?" Nadir, his arms folded across his chest, sounded as though he was interrogating a criminal back in his native Persia and Baudin suddenly seemed slightly more on edge.

"Tristan," he answered promptly. "Tristan Descoteaux."

Of their own accord, my feet began to carry me from one wall to the other, a restless anger and unceasing tension pulling my nerves taunt and thin. Nadir watched me anxiously for a moment, no doubt fearing my lasso would make an appearance, before giving Baudin a searching look. "Monsieur, is there anything that we can do?"

Baudin nodded, serious to a fault. "Yes; there are two things." Nadir and I gave him our undivided attention; he smiled—no more than the barest curl of his lips. "You can tell me your names for one, and then you can tell me what happened to bring on her fit."

I sighed, gesturing impatiently at Nadir. "This is Nadir Khan, formerly of Persia. My name is of no consequence."

He raised an eyebrow in muted surprise but said nothing to me, turning instead to Nadir. "Monsieur Khan, what happened?"

"I don't know," was the daroga's sad reply; he shook his head. "We were heading…down the hall—I looked behind me and she wasn't there." He flinched beneath my glare, but dared not look at me. "I thought that she had merely taken a wrong turn—the opera is large and the hallways can be quite confusing if you don't know the way—but when I found her, she was crying and the pains started soon after that."

A frown pasted itself across Baudin's face. "Interesting," he muttered. He shook his head. "It is curious, that."

The instinct was singing in my blood again and I turned my eyes coldly on the doctor. "_Boy!_" I was trembling, so slightly that it could not be seen but only felt deep in my bones; Baudin blinked at me, tensed. "May I see her?"

He hesitated. "Well yes, but—"

I heard nothing beyond the affirmative and was through the door before Nadir's shout reached my ears. The room was dim with only the weakly flickering flame of a lantern in the corner to illuminate it, but it was no matter for my cat-like eyes. It was sparsely furnished, the room, with only a table, a bed, a chair, and a counter with medical supplies strewn across its surface. The walls were cracked and the wallpaper was curling at the ceiling, but in spite of that the room—like all the others—was spotless and without dust, although I could smell blood, new blood, hanging on the air like some macabre perfume. I shuddered. Then my eyes fell on Mignonette; she was lying in the bed, the covers pulled up to her chest, and her beautiful emerald eyes were closed. I went to her side, like an apologetic dog to its master, my every breath begging forgiveness for my absence.

"Mademoiselle?" I murmured, sitting in the bedside chair.

She did not stir.

A small panic began to flutter on the abrasive wings of doubt within my mind and I swallowed. "Mademoiselle?" I called louder than before. Still, there was no reaction. My hand found hers and I shook her by the shoulder gently; her stillness was frightening and wholly unnatural—it was as though she was dead. That thought alone raised my voice and, with the panic swirling in my head, I hadn't had the presence of mind to check for any signs of life and was reduced to calling her name mindlessly. "_Mignonette!_"

"Calm down," muttered Baudin, grabbing my wrists firmly; I had not noticed his entrance. I looked at him, entreating him to assuage my foolish fears. "I tried to warn you. We gave her laudanum(1) for the pain."

I swallowed; my embarrassment was lost in the tidal wave of relief that flooded my body. I chuckled numbly—a near hysterical sound that whispered of my hidden madness—and passed a hand over my eyes. "Laudanum… Of course. I should have known."

He smiled sadly. "It's quite all right." I noticed then how gentle his voice was, how absolutely calming in such a common manner. Comforting and practiced—the perfect voice of a well-learned doctor. I hated it, as it reminded me immediately of Étienne Barye. I turned my face away.

From the doorway, Nadir studied Mignonette's motionless frame. His eyes looked infinitely sad and I knew with grim certainty that he was remembering Rookheeya and Reza. "When will she wake?" he asked, his voice no more than a pained breath.

Baudin thought for a moment, extending our agony, albeit unintentionally, until he finally sighed. "I would say…three or so hours, at least. It wasn't a strong dose, but she was exhausted."

_Exhausted…_ I could only imagine. Mignonette's face was as white as snow and I could see minute traces of pain in the small creases about her eyes and mouth. And yet, she looked so peaceful, so calm now—a far cry from the woman I had held in my arms naught but an hour ago. I could see the rise and fall of her chest now and it comforted me somewhat, but I did not relax. Her hand was nearly lifeless in mine; I had felt many dead bodies over the years and Mignonette's stillness was not welcome after so long with the dead.

"May I sit with her?" My voice was hardly above a whisper.

Baudin touched my shoulder gently, sighing. "Certainly, Monsieur." A moment later his hand was gone and I heard the door close. I was alone with the woman I barely knew anymore.

_Married? __**Married?**_ I closed my eyes, unable to look at the small traces of pain. I had never seen a ring on her finger, and I could not truly believe Abel Baudin. In my mind, his words would always be lies until I head them from Mignonette herself. I swallowed back the tears that threatened to fall; a raw chuckle forced its way from my throat again. It seemed that in the space of mere _minutes_ one of the happiest nights I had known had turned to the worst. It had happened before, of course, with the grand vazir's murder, but this was different. It wasn't my soul—so black and dead—that was teetering on the edge of the Abyss, but Mignonette's young and pure life.

_Oh God!_ She was to be a mother! The thought had never truly embedded itself before, but now I realized the full implications. _A mother!_ I could see it now, like Athanaël's vision(2), the image seared into my eyelids: Mignonette, the bulge gone, smiling as she held a newborn babe to her chest, cooing in that sweet voice of hers. I could see her rocking the child gently as she sang quaint lullabies. Oh, God—_a mother!_ I had never really had any experience with newborns or children, but, for Mignonette, I was willing to learn. Only one thing dulled the breathless and eager vision—the remembrance of her lie and the cold truth. _She had lied to me_ and I could not understand why. Why had she not told me? Had she thought I would turn her in? No, that wasn't it, surely—she had told the daroga that she trusted me implicitly. Then _why?_

The lantern guttered in the corner and, for a moment, Mignonette's face seemed to be cast in shadow in such a way that it appeared as a skull more hideous and decayed than even my own. Then the moment passed, and she was Mignonette once more. I shuddered, trying to drive the image from my mind. I stared for a long while at her, memorizing every feature and plane of her face and the small hollow at the base of her throat where the shadows pooled. She was wearing only her slip now, as they had removed her dress to better attend to her, and I could not help but think that it didn't matter—that she was just as beautiful now as when she had first walked into the room this evening at Nadir's small flat. Her beauty was only tainted by her lie. My hand found hers again and my long fingers curled around hers. _She will hold an infant in these hands in a week or two_, I thought; it was a strange feeling that blossomed in my chest at that singular thought. It was warm and cold simultaneously; it made me want to cry one moment and scream in the next. What was this feeling? This feeling that burned like fire in my withered soul, and seemed to hold Mignonette above all else? It invoked such a fierce need to protect her that I was entirely certain that I would brave all the armies of this world and the next and even the very fires of Hell itself to save her from harm. It was something a selfish creature such as myself could not understand.

Hours passed in near silence. Distantly I could hear Nadir and Baudin talking in an awkward gait in the waiting room, as though they were trying to force a conversation for the sake of the noise and distraction, rather than the words. And beyond them, the quiet sound of the Parisian night. My thoughts wandered where they were wont but always returned to the lie. _Who_, I wondered, _is this "Tristan Descoteaux?"_ What did he look like? What did he wear? Where did he live? Had his home burned, as Mignonette had said—or was that a lie as well? Was any of this the truth to begin with? The questions plagued me relentlessly. Dozens of possible circumstances had stalked my mind, each as far-fetched as the last, and very few likely at all. I was staring unseeingly at the far wall when I heard the welcome sound of a groan from the bed.

Relief flooded me at the sight of Mignonette waking. She groaned again and opened her eyes slowly, her emerald half-gaze searching for something familiar in the gloom of the alien room. "Erik," she murmured, though her voice soon gained more intensity. "Erik! _Where are you?_" Her voice held a note of terrified panic although her words were slurred and clumsy from the laudanum.

"I'm here, mademoiselle," I answered quickly, squeezing her hand gently. "There is nothing to fear."

She shuddered, choking as she whimpered. "Oh God—_Erik_!" Tears were slipping from beneath her sable lashes now and it pained me so that I could do nothing… "He was here! Oh God, _please!_" She was frantic, though still under that more mild effect of the opiate.

I frowned, smoothing back her now wild black hair from her damp forehead. "Calm, child. Who was there?"

She turned her face away helplessly, her beautiful, wet eyes closed against the flood. "Please," she whispered, "Don't make me go back to him…"

And I knew then, as I heard the tremble in her voice. My lips curled back and my eyes narrowed as I pulled away from her. "Tristan Descoteaux," I hissed. "Your _husband_."

She let out a pain-filled, pitiable sob, her hand fisting in the sheets. "_Please!_ Forgive me…forgive me…"

I watched her coldly for a moment. "_Madame Descoteaux_, you must realize, I do not take kindly to being played for the fool."

Her face was a mask of physical and emotional pain now as she began to sob harder. "Erik, _please_—he'll come for me…" A spasm shook her frame and she looked entirely wretched; my coldness began to melt and worry soon replaced it.

"_Calm_," I murmured, taking her hand again; she whimpered, clutching my hand for dear life, her emerald eyes no more than slits as she fixed them on me again. "What happened?"

She moaned. "_Please…_ He was so unkind…so cruel…"

My frowned deepened. "Mademoiselle? What did he do?"

"He called me a whore," she whispered, her voice shuddering and breaking; disbelief buried itself to the hilt in my gut and quickly turned to anger. "Please—don't make me go back to him…"

"He will not _touch_ you again," I seethed. "I will not allow it." There was more, I could see, than merely unkind words to their meeting: there was a threat—though of what, I didn't know. But after all, unkind words would not cause a fear this strong. I fingered a lock of her hair with a sad, forced smile. "You are safe with me, Mignonette."

Her tears doubled with my words and she shuddered, wrapping her arms around her abdomen. "Erik," she pleaded, the fear still shining through her eyes. "He can't have the child—_he can't!_" I could do nothing but reassure her with words I was reasonably certain she could no longer hear. "You are its father! You and Camille and I and no one else! Only you…"

My throat was slowly constricting as I watched her terror and laudanum-induced hysteria. It would pass soon, but for now it was more than I could bear to see. Carefully, mechanically, I got to my feet, gently freeing my hand from her grasp, though the moment I did, she began to scream for me. I opened the door just as Baudin and the daroga reached it.

"_What happened?_" demanded Baudin, pushing past me and rushing to Mignonette's side.

I swallowed. "She's awake. I believe another dose of laudanum would be advisable." Before anything else could be said, I made my way to the fireside chair and sank into its welcoming cushions. I was numb and shaking as I stared absently at the flames. Somehow, I knew I would get no sleep that night. Behind me, I could still hear Mignonette's cries, even as Baudin administered a sedative to calm her. I closed my eyes, desperate for sleep, for anything to make this go away, if only for a few hours… I was well aware of Nadir's presence behind the chair long before he spoke.

"Erik," he growled; his voice was quiet, strained. "What happened?"

"She woke up."

There was a moment of frustrated silence before Nadir spoke again. "You know that's not what I mean."

I knew it. My grip on the arms of the chair tightened. "It is none of your concern, daroga."

"Damn you, Erik!" He was in front of me in seconds, hoisting me an inch off of the seat by the lapels of my opera suit; his face was twisted in the worst anger which he rarely displayed. I did nothing as he shook me. "I care for her too! Now—" He shoved me back into the chair and folded his arms over his chest, glaring. "_Tell me what happened._"

I sighed. "I can't." He looked about to shake me again and I held my hand up. "Not now, daroga. Pester me with you incessant questions tomorrow. Leave me in peace."

Nadir's jaw clenched and he looked away, toward the window. "Of course," he muttered stiffly, returning to his watch at the mantel, but what he was watching for eluded me entirely. The only thing I cared for lay in the dim, dustless room that smelled faintly of blood.

A weary sigh broke from my lips. My eyes closed behind my stifling mask and I willfully slowed my breathing, somehow managing to clear my mind and slow its painful reeling. My limbs grew heavy and I welcomed the soft embrace of the cushion, the only embrace I had ever known, and would ever know.

_You knew another embrace once,_ hissed the treacherous voice that had been silent since Mignonette's arrival. _When she held you that day, of her own free will—of __**love!**_

The voice had struck a chord in me, but I merely ignored it and focused, instead, on the picture it had presented me of Mignonette. The gentle pressure of her thin fingers on my wrist and arm, the feeling of her heart pulsing against me, and the soft press of an unborn life against my abdomen—God, she had thanked me, as though I were _human_. I knew then, that it was I, and not her, who was forever bound to service. It had not been love—at least, not the love that the lovers share—but that mattered little to me. Slowly, my forced calm returned, and I dreamed of Mignonette and the child, of my beloved Christine, of hope. For the first time in a long time, I dreamed of _hope_.

It was dawn when the dream ended. The sound of an opening door scattered its pieces to the wind and I frowned sharply. I didn't turn to see who had entered—another patient, I supposed—preferring instead to attempt to recapture the elusive dream. The door shut again and the new visitor rapped loudly on the wall.

"Baudin!"

Another door opened and then a sigh. "Monsieur Descoteaux," greeted Baudin; I abandoned the dream, my eyes snapping open. The fire was nothing more than ashes now; Nadir was tense, facing the visitor behind me.

"Where is she?" snapped Monsieur Descoteaux.; my nails were digging into the fabric of the chair. "Where is my _wife?_"

"_Quiet, boy._"

I watched Nadir watch the lad and I could see from his expression that I had startled the boy.

"And who are you," he demanded, "To tell me what to do?"

A quiet laugh bubbled from my throat and I slowly rose; I quite deliberately took my time adjusting my cloak before turning to face this man that had terrified Mignonette more effectively than even my hideous face could. He was a young, strong man, this Tristan Descoteaux. A mop of sleek blonde hair sat in the newest fashion atop his head and perfectly chiseled features. He was clad in the finest tailor-made suit and my lips curled back in disgust.

My eyes locked with his blue gaze. "I am merely a friend, at the moment."

He stared at me for a moment longer, an incredulous expression on his face, before turning away. "Where is she?" he asked Baudin again.

Nervous twitching seemed to have infected Baudin the moment Descoteaux's attention fixed on him. "In the examination room. She's resting now."

Descoteaux waved away the doctor's words. "I'll see my wife whenever I wish, resting or no." I grit my teeth as he made for the door, my fingers fishing quickly in my cloak. My dagger thudded into the operating room door, inches from Descoteaux's outstretched hand. He jerked back, blue eyes wide. "What treachery—!"

"She is resting, Monsieur," I said dispassionately, fingering another dagger idly. "She shall not be disturbed."

In seconds, Descoteaux's handsome face had twisted and his cheeks gained horrible splotches of white and red—not unlike a rotten tomato—as he spun to face me. Under more lax circumstances I would have laughed at the comical sight he presented, made especially more comical by Nadir's warning look. Monsieur Descoteaux crossed the space between us in a few quick strides and stopped just short of three feet away, his eyes flashing.

"What say have you in this matter, _Monsieur?_" he growled, much like a wolf.

"Enough," I answered simply, balancing the small dagger, blade down, on the tips of the fingers of my right hand. He seemed wholly unimpressed.

Condescension crossed his features as though I were an insect—anger boiled hot in my gut and I began to move the knife quickly between my fingers, the deadly steel flashing in the early morning light from the window. "Baudin," he barked behind him, his eyes never leaving mine. "Call the authorities—I would like to see my wife."

I could hear the frown in Abel Baudin's voice then. "Monsieur?"

Monsieur Descoteaux smiled, sickly pleasant suddenly. "I shall be taking her home today and I want no trouble from this…" His eyes traveled down my long frame and back up to my mask. "…Curiously dressed fellow."

"But Monsieur!" cried Baudin, disbelief and near outrage forcing the naturally good-natured and timid man to defend his position. "She cannot! She is still far too weak to be—"

"She is my _wife_," snapped the obviously foolish well-to-do lad before me, breaking my gaze as he turned to glare at the doctor. "I'll take her _where_ I wish, _when_ I wish!"

The words had hardly left his mouth before my hand found his throat and he had an unfortunate intimate meeting with the wall. My other hand, of its own accord, pressed the glittering blade to the stretched white neck of Monsieur Descoteaux. Rage filled my veins with its intoxicating poison and my twisted lips brushed his ear. "You do not _own_ her, _Monsieur_," I hissed. His eyes flashed with nothing short of absolute loathing—I let it roll off me like so much mist; after all, I was long used to such looks.

"Erik!" Nadir's fingers curled around my arm slowly, as though he was afraid of startling me into some rash action. "Erik, you can't do this." I spared him the briefest of glances; his face was as pale as I had ever seen it, his jade eyes wide with honest fear of this madness. "He's not worth it." The unspoken message in his eyes was clear: _It's not worth losing Mignonette._

My eyes found Monsieur Descoteaux's again and narrowed. There was a kind of indignant defiance in those blue pits that I had never seen before and found decidedly less than amusing; his hands, as well, were gripping my wrists, the nails biting through my flesh, though I did not feel it. I grit my teeth, realizing that the damned daroga was right—_again_. I pressed the whelp's face into the wall once more as I released him, moving back a few paces. My gaze was cold as I watched him slowly regain composure, adjusting his suit collar and sleeves—his eyes never left me. I smiled rather nastily.

"You would do well to leave now, Monsieur," I warned, my hands fiddling once more with the gleaming knife. "As well, it would not be wise on your part to attempt to see Mademoiselle Mignonette Desrosiers again."

For the briefest of moments, it seemed that a great and terrible sadness rose up from some hidden place inside of his being and he looked at me with the utmost sincerity. "I loved her once," he said quietly.

It affected me little; I had heard his words and they still rang in my ears. "If you no longer care for her, then you have no business here. She is no longer any of your concern."

The moment passed and a strange gleam entered his cold eyes; he sneered. "Fine, _Monsieur_," he spat. "Shelter the _whore_, if you wish; I have no want of her or her filth."

My grip on the dagger's handle tightened and I stiffened, bearing my teeth. "You had best wish that you and I never meet alone on the street—or at all."

He seemed only mildly shaken at my threat, but that his gaze quickly flicked to my knife did not go unnoticed. He sneered once more in disgust and left, shutting the door harder than was required; I snorted, returning my dagger to it's hidden place. I stood still a moment longer, both Nadir and Baudin tensed and anxious, waiting to see what I would do next—as though I was some sort of wild animal that had escaped its cage. I sighed.

"Monsieur Baudin," I murmured, suddenly quite tired. "May I sit with her?"

He hesitated, torn between fear and duty. A compromise, then. "You may, Monsieur," he said haltingly. "But do not disturb her rest."

"Of course."

Nadir said nothing as I passed him and pulled the dagger from the door, stowing it with its sibling. I shut the door with deliberate slowness; I could feel Mignonette's eyes on my back and they burned. Stealing myself, I turned at last to face her like the man I wasn't. She was clutching a pillow to her chest as quiet tears left silver trails down her cheeks. I did not go to her, but stayed at the door.

She sniffed, lifting her bloodshot eyes to mine. "Monsieur? I thought… I thought I heard…_him_…"

I nodded. "Yes, Monsieur Descoteaux was here." She paled visibly and her tremors grew all the worse; I sighed. "He won't be coming back for you, Madame—please, calm yourself or you shall become ill again."

With a great effort and deep breaths, she managed to calm her tremors somewhat, though she was still shaking badly. "Please," she whispered, her fingers playing across the white sheets. "_Please_…can you forgive me my lies, Monsieur?"

I said nothing and, turning as I closed the door, I returned to the little chair in front of the hearth. There was nothing yet to say.

* * *

—End Chapter—

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**A/N:** It seems thee has been a falling out… What shall become of Erik and Mignonette's friendship now? And have we really seen the last of Monsieur Tristan Descoteaux? Stay tuned, and please _review!_

Here's the notes marked by superscripts:

1. Laudanum—morphine, basically. It's an opiate tincture that was commonly used in the time period, and is still sometimes prescribed today.

2. Athanaël's vision—a reference to the opera _Thaïs_.


	7. Goodnight, My Angel

**A/N:** *Sigh* Why does no one review anymore? Well. . .it's a shame to let it just lie there, so I might as well post it. Story isn't over, of course. C'mon guys, review a bit? Lemme know how I'm doing. . . Also, aaahahaha, I need to return to fanfiction. I might. It's iffy. We'll see what happens after finals end in a bit over a week.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, not making any money!

**Ratings:** PG-13

**Genre:** Angst

**Warnings:** Not much. It's my first PotO chapter fic, but I've read the book, and Kay's _Phantom_, seen the 2004 and 1925 films as well.

**Main Characters:** Erik, Nadir, and an OC (Mignonette)

**Additional Notes:** All right, although I do not normally mention what music I listen to during a chapter-writing, I will say that, if ever any two chapters had a theme-song, then 6 and 7 would be it. The song is "Lullaby (Goodnight, My Angel)" by Billy Joel. I do so hope you enjoy this chapter.

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Be My Shelter

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_

_**Chapter 6: **__Goodnight, My Angel_

In the weeks that followed the disaster at the opera house, Mignonette suffered terribly from fits of panic. The slightest amount of stress would set her off and Baudin had assured us quite quickly that it could be deadly to the child, as well as to Mignonette. Thus, Nadir and I were forced to walk on eggshells when near her. She was confined to her bed until the child was born and dreadful boredom and worry, in turns, plagued her mind constantly. Her nightmares became all the more frequent and soon not even the soothing sound of my voice or the old violin could calm her—Nadir and I took turns in watching over her at night, so that one of us would be there to wake her in the event of a nightmare. It was a tiring vigil, and one that I did not take kindly to.

Mignonette's betrayal still weighed heavily on my mind, though it was arguably less traumatic to me than Christine's. I could not understand why, after our initial meeting, she had lied continually to me concerning her identity. Even when she had known _my_ true identity—a powerful piece of information and the perfect means of bending me to her will—she had kept hers a secret. Had she not _trusted _me enough? She had never given me any sign that she had less than complete faith in me. I couldn't understand it. Perhaps I merely did not want to examine the pain her betrayal invoked, nor the memory of Christine's that rode its coattails. Hadn't I been betrayed enough?

Also, there was the matter of Tristan Descoteaux, Mignonette's Desrosiers husband. I supposed I should call her _Madame_ _Descoteaux_ now, though the name was strange on my tongue and tasted bitter. What had happened? _Something_ had obviously occurred between them—Baudin had said as much when he told us that they had been content for the better part of their marriage, Mignonette and her husband. Then something had changed, and she had left him. Or had she really? Tristan's sincere statement bothered me—"_I loved her once."_ Once? What had changed? There had been such a cruelness in his eyes, such disgust and abhorrence. It was as though she was a monster in his eyes. And yet, there had been a kind of sadness, a kind of pain that told of a pleading wish that it all could have been different. _Why?_

I have seen many things in this world—from my native France, to Persia and India, and the cold barren lands of Mother Russia—and I had seen hate in most all its forms. But not like this. No, the hate and fear between Mignonette and her husband was different. It was far more tempered by the inexplicable sadness, by an air of almost _unwillingness_, as though they were loathe to hate. As though they still loved. I could not quite pin down the reason, try as I might. I spent hours puzzling an answer from the half-melted shards and slivers I had gleaned from her past; still, I was truly no closer to an answer then when I had first found her in the alley. Now, all I had for my peace of mind was a macabre sculpture of glistening glass that I knew would shatter the moment the truth brushed by it. The sculpture was the easy answer, encased in a fragile gossamer hope like a mist across the Seine. The sculpture was that he—that Tristan Descoteaux—was no more than a run of the mill bastard that had defiled my dear, sweet Mignonette and tossed her to the side when he was finished. The very thought colored my vision red. But still, something felt off, and I could not decipher what it was.

I stalked the Parisian streets like a wild animal many nights after she finally returned to Nadir's flat, two days after the incident at the opera. I had not spoken with her since that night, though I sang occasionally to calm her and sat with her in a tense silence. And of course, I played the violin for her regularly. And yet, always now there was the tenseness. It was entirely inescapable and I felt its presence even when I was walking at night beneath the full Parisian moon. Despite the instinct that still consumed me—and God in heaven, it burned me with want!—I kept myself at an ever lengthening distance from her. Still, I _wanted_ to be near her. I _wanted_ to hear her voice. _I wanted to protect her._ And all of this, against my better judgment. The two conflicting emotions were slowly tearing me in two, fraying my edges—soon, I feared, there would be nothing left of me—but I had _promised._

And so I could only walk.

In my somewhat frantic walks, I relearned the entire eighth arrondissement and the gardens of the Grand Palais, as well as the Petit. It did not help, I well knew, but it gave me something to do, something away from Nadir and Mignonette. It was something safe. Walking along the Rue de Ponthieu, I could almost forget, for a moment, that I did not belong there. I could be anyone—I was visibly invisible. If it hadn't been for the instinct and the decidedly ill omen that greeted me one night, they would have been rather pleasant walks, allowing for circumstances.

It was still early evening when I found him that night. Of course, by "found" I mean to say that he nearly walked into me. I moved quickly and managed to avoid a collision. I glared at the well-dressed fop that had narrowly missed me—had not even noticed me, in fact—and it was a moment before I recognized who it was. _Tristan Descoteaux._ Behind the mask, my eyes widened. What, I immediately wondered, was the boy doing on the Boulevard de Courcellos, when Baudin had mentioned, at my insistence on one of his visits to the flat (to check on Mignonette's fragile condition), that _Monsieur_ Descoteaux owned but one house, on the Rue Goethe. Surely he was not shopping, as he had just come from a prominent bar and the stench of alcohol was strong on him, though he walked with a fair stability. It only took a single moment for me to make up my mind. I turned on heel and began to trail him down the Boulevard. Halfway to the Avenue de Wagram, he hailed a carriage, and I was forced to do likewise (I was lucky there was another nearby). I watched M. Descoteaux's carriage for a moment before turning to my own driver.

"Follow that carriage," I commanded. "And by your life, be discreet about it!" Thankfully, the lad did as he was told, and did it well. In fact, I quite fancy that he _enjoyed _the "excitement."

In any case, we followed Descoteaux's carriage down the Avenue de Wagram to the Avenue Marceau, and finally turning off into the small Rue Goethe. It was not quite a high society street—but it held an air of money and dignity, as well as a nearly intolerable pride. The villas here were comfortable and not overly opulent, with small gardens that whispered of an earthy humbleness in contrast to the fine buildings themselves, but the estates were large enough to prove their owner's wealth; I could not help but think that perhaps Mignonette might have been better off with her husband. Unlike Nadir and myself, _he_ could give her all the comforts she could ever desire. My eyes narrowed at the thought.

"…_I loved her once…"_

What had he meant? My hands fisted in my cloak and I pulled my fedora low, so as to shadow the mask more deeply, as the chaise at last halted half a block from where M. Descoteaux's had stopped. I paid my driver and was only fifteen or so feet from Descoteaux's carriage when the lad finally managed to drag himself from its confines. I watched, coming ever closer, until I had hid myself in the tall bushes that lined the walk to the villa, a mere three feet away from the place which Descoteaux was staggering down. The instinct was urging me to rid the world of this threat and I was fully prepared to do so when a woman's voice stopped me.

"Monsieur Descoteaux!"

I grit my teeth as I heard the soft patter of the woman's shoes on the flagstones. I growled quietly to myself, my hands twitching. I watched the path and decided that I would wait for another opportunity. As I watched, the woman came into view; I stared, thrown for a moment. She was obviously wealthy, as could be seen immediately from her evening dress. It was dark indigo, fitting exactly to her thin curves, and looked to be silk—I believe I even caught the glitter of the several jewels sewn into the expensive fabric as she rushed past my secret place to Descoteaux, who had stopped to stare in dumb wonderment. She attempted to support him, a semi-concerned expression on her fashionably white features, but he rather violently threw off her hand, glaring.

The woman frowned, straightening, her grey eyes hard and angry. "God," she muttered, "You're drunk!" She shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest and reminding me eerily of the ballet mistress of the _corps de ballet_ at the Garnier. "I suppose you've not found her then?"

Descoteaux groaned, and it was clear that he was suffering from the aftereffects of the alcohol. I was sorely tempted to laugh in his ear, but repressed the urge and only smirked to myself. "What are you doing here?" he asked, returning her glare with one eye, the other closed as he pressed his palm to his temple.

"I came in the vain hope that you had found her." The woman's tone was clipped; Descoteaux laughed at her words, though it was a bitter, harsh sound.

"I hate to disappoint you, _Madame_," he sneered; the woman flinched as though she'd been struck and I was suddenly far more interested in their conversation. "But it seems that she does not wish to come back—not even to you."

Though she was only about five foot five, the woman seemed to tower suddenly, her eyes bright and doubly alert. "You found her?"

Waving dismissively, he replied, "Yes, yes—a few days ago—why are you still here?" He sounded tired suddenly, and though I could not see his face I had a feeling it looked worn and far older than it actually was; at his words, I was certain now of the subject of their conversation: Mignonette.

The woman ignored his question, and when she spoke next it was with a horrible, desperate urgency: "_Where is she?_" The woman's face had grown even paler, her eyes wide, and the skin about her mouth had become taunt with anxiety. "I need to see her—"

"No," interrupted Descoteaux, his voice firm; he had turned slightly and I could see now that he was staring blankly toward the flagstones and seemed to have sobered somewhat. "I don't want you anywhere _near_—"

"You cannot keep me from her!" Her grey eyes flashed and her lithe hands were fisted at her sides now. "And besides," she hissed, "I know that she still—"

At once, Descoteaux's manner changed and he became the man I had met in the waiting room of Baudin's clinic; in seconds, he had the woman's upper arm in an obvious vice-like grip and had pulled her closer despite her harsh gasp of surprise. "Don't say it—don't you _dare_ say it!"

The woman met his anger with a set determination scrawled across her features and reflecting from her narrowed eyes. "It's the truth."

A sharp crack split the night air and the woman stumbled back a step from the force of the slap; her hand gingerly touched her reddening cheek as she stared wide-eyed at M. Descoteaux, her red hair falling in wisps from her bun now, the ringlets brushing her cheek. Descoteaux suddenly shoved her toward the street and she stumbled back a few paces. "Keep the _hell_ away from Mignonette and I," he said lowly in something redolent of a feral, guttural growl. "You have no place here!"

For the briefest of moments, the woman's resolve crumbled, her face contorting until she seemed the very incarnation of Misery herself. She left then, taking the carriage M. Descoteaux had abandoned; Descoteaux himself continued his trek to the villa, far more alert than before the woman's untimely appearance but still blissfully unaware of my presence. My teeth clenched in frustration, however; for as awake as he was now, I knew an attack would mean screaming and possibly an irritating tussle in the open. But it was no matter, I told myself; there would be other opportunities, I knew, as I retreated back to my waiting carriage. The ride to the Rue de Rivoli was silent and the Madeleine's bells were just chiming midnight when we reached Nadir's flat. I could not help but think that Mignonette did not belong with Nadir and I—that we were undeserving of her presence. She deserved, I was certain, more than I could ever give her.

The lights were dim throughout the flat—all save a single lamp in the sitting room, under which Nadir sat, scanning the lines of the _Epoque_. He did not look up when I entered, merely nodding in some sort of familiar obligatory greeting, as though this was normal. As though I was _family_. For a moment, I could remember the days of Reza and the somewhat happier times of my stay in Persia. I sighed.

"Where have you been?"

I spared him a glance. "Walking, daroga; as if you didn't know."

Nadir shrugged, turning the page nonchalantly, though I could see that it was an act. "You've been walking a lot lately." His voice held an air of curiosity that I did not like. "Quite unusual for you."

When I had hung my hat and cloak on the hook, I took a seat in the armchair adjacent to Nadir's. "It is none of your concern, daroga."

He folded the _Epoque_ and looked at me with hard jade eyes. "No, actually it is." He gestured absently, tossing the newspaper on the end table. "You see," he said lightly, "When you act unusual for yourself, it tends to end in someone's death."

I bristled. _The damn daroga should learn_, I thought furiously, _to keep to his own business!_ "Stop being such a silly ass, daroga," I snapped. "Your questions are beginning to irritate Erik—and Erik is not one to be irritated lightly." I grabbed Nadir's abandoned issue of the _Epoque_ rather violently—more so than I had intended—and opened it to a random page.

Nadir's gaze suddenly became harsher and the atmosphere in the small room turned to one of cautious suspicion. He had a right to be worried, I supposed. "Where did you go tonight, Erik?"

A frown twisted what lips I had. "I've told you: you need not concern yourself with Erik's doings, daroga. We are not in Persia."

"Erik—" There was a new urgency in his voice now. "—_what did you do?_"

"Nothing of much importance," I muttered, my eyes not really seeing the page.

His voice became commanding then, and he growled, "I'll be the judge of that."

My grip tightened on the _Epoque_ and I grit my teeth. "I saw Monsieur Descoteaux," I hissed. "I took a great pleasure in strangling him slowly as he begged for mercy—is that what you wish to hear?"

There was a pause in which I imagine Nadir's heart might have temporarily stopped in shock. "Erik—_Allah!_—you didn't—"

"Only in my mind, daroga," I sighed. "_Calm yourself._"

I heard him swallow. "Then you didn't—"

"No, I didn't. Believe me, I thought about it." I frowned as I finally realized the page I had opened to: the obituaries. "I merely watched him from a distance." I glanced at him and rolled my eyes, exasperated. "Don't look at me like that, daroga. He nearly collided into me on the street; he was drunk and I was suddenly quite curious—so I trailed him to his villa on the Rue Goethe. I swear to you that I did not touch him." Nadir did not seem convinced in the least. "He was never aware of my presence."

He fixed me with a stern look over his steepled fingers. "Stay away from him, Erik."

I waved away his warning, discarding the _Epoque_—it was hardly interesting anyway. We settled into a deafening silence. God, it seemed to smother me and I could not breathe properly. It was a disconcerting feeling—silence had never bothered me before; I had lived in relative silence for most all of my life. My thoughts, of their own defiant volition, turned to the villa on the Rue Goethe. I finally understood the origin of her curiously good manners and what's more, I realized that she _belonged_ with Descoteaux. It was a painful realization and it bent my frame until my frame until my masked face was resting in my gloved hands. Oh God—could I do it a second time? Could I let her go, for her own good, and ignore my own selfish wants? I wasn't sure, but I would try—I owed her as much.

"She needs to go back to him, daroga." My voice was small and hardly more than a pained breath; I cursed myself for my weakness.

Nadir's expression was one of puzzlement and I cannot say that I blamed him. "What do you mean?"

However, I did tire of explaining everything; I flicked my wrist impatiently. "Mignonette—she needs to return to her husband." I frowned, my hand going to my chest. _What is this pain in my chest?_

Confusion contorted his features, his eyes suddenly troubled by my newest announcement. "Why?" he asked slowly, cautiously. "She's fine here—"

A ragged laughed forced its way from my throat; I gritted my teeth in scarcely repressed anger. "You are a sillier ass than I thought, daroga!" I spat viciously—I hated him for making me say it. God, the pain… "We cannot adequately care for her here with such funds as we have—and a child as well!" I shook my head. There was a bitter taste in my mouth and the dry smell of the fire's ashes only served to worsen my downward spiraling mood. "How do you propose we support them?"

He only made a helpless gesture, but his voice, when he spoke, was naïvely hopeful. "We will find a way."

I wanted to hit him for such an idiotically idealistic thought. "That's not good enough!"

For a moment, Nadir seemed to reconsider his reply, but then his eyes closed halfway and he smiled lazily, smugly at me, reclining back in his chair. "You could always sell one of your many precious compositions you have stashed away if need be."

That, I had no answer for. I looked away from him and the pain in my chest grew all the more: Nadir had given me a solution, a way to make her comfortable—a way to keep her here. But who was I to say that she _wanted_ to stay? And even if she did… But no; I would not think on it. It was too much to hope for.

Mignonette's dreams worsened, to the point where only an embrace would calm her—it was something I could not give her. For her sake, as well as my own. I distanced myself even further from her and Nadir became her sole caregiver, with the help of his faithful Darius. I hated it, but I could not bring myself to see her—it was too painful, knowing that she would soon be gone. Though, once, I had needed to hear her voice—the urge was so strong that I had sunk instantly to pressing my ear to her door.

"Your food is getting cold, _aziz (_1)." Nadir's voice was slightly muffled through the door; I frowned. _Aziz_—dear. When had he begun to call her that?

Mignonette sighed. "I'm not very hungry. Thank you though." She sounded so sad and I could not help but wonder why.

Nadir clicked his tongue disapprovingly, reminding me of my own mother when I had refused to comply with her wishes as a child. "You need to eat." There was the sound of bedsprings creaking; he had apparently taken a seat on the edge of the bed. "Madame, what is wrong?"

I could tell that she was holding back a sob and the instinct began to hum in my mind. "Oh, Monsieur Khan!" she sobbed, "He hates me, doesn't he?"

My chest tightened painfully and I closed my eyes, leaning back against the wall beside the door of her room. Inside, I heard the frown in Nadir's voice. "You mean Erik?" A pause. "No, _aziz_, he doesn't hate you—he's only angry that you were not honest with him."

"He's been avoiding me," she countered, sniffing. "I didn't mean to lie for so long! I was just afraid…"

"Don't worry, _aziz_. He will come around soon enough; he's just stubborn, is all." I scowled at that. "Even a mule will concede sooner or later."

"Are you certain?"

"Very." I imagined that he was smiling, comforting her. "Now—" He was suddenly bright, cheerful, and business-like— "You just rest and I shall bring you a bowl of sorbet for dessert."

"Thank you, Monsieur Khan." It hurt to envision the smile she must have attempted. It was only a moment later when Nadir opened the door. He raised an eyebrow at my presence but he did not comment and shut the door behind him.

"I don't hate her," I whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, the words out of my mouth before I had realized I had spoken.

He did not even look at me. "I know." He continued down the hall, toward the kitchen and something compelled me to follow him. "Mainly," he continued, "Because the last person you claimed to hate had his veins opened on your orders."

I frowned, shifting uncomfortably; I preferred not to think of the debacle of Mirza Taqi Khan's death. "The grand vazir deserved his fate," I muttered in my own defense.

Nadir glanced back with a pointed look, stopping at the ice box. "But Mignonette does not." I tensed, my eyes narrowing; he pulled out a bowl and spoon from the cabinet and set them on the counter with measured calmness. "You need to talk to her."

"No." I shook my head, folding my arms across my chest. "I can't, daroga."

His fist slammed into the counter, rattling the plates. "Damn your foolish pride, Erik!" he seethed; there were few times I had ever seen him that angry. "She _needs_ you to forgive her."

"Daroga—"

"No," he snapped. He turned deliberately, forcing his breathing to slow, and ladled two scoops of the dessert into the bowl. "Just go to her, at least," he said, obviously frustrated with my stubborn insistence. "Talk with her, and perhaps you will learn something."

"But—"

"Not another word, Erik." He pushed the bowl of sorbet into my hands and I stared down at it for a moment before my eyes moved back to him, rested, and then back to the sorbet. I swallowed, then sighed in defeat. When faced with Nadir's anger, there were only two things to do: obey, or run.

I hesitated at the door for only a brief moment before entering with the bowl of sorbet still in my hands. Mignonette looked up and I could see the immediate surprise and half-fed hope in her dim emerald eyes. She was pale, I could see, and she looked exhausted—drained. I took a deep breath.

"Madame?"

She bit her lip for a moment, as though she hardly dared to test her luck. "Monsieur Erik? What is it?"

I shook my head, setting the bowl on the small bedside table, where it would be within her reach should she want it. "How are you feeling, Madame?"

On the bed, Mignonette smiled sheepishly. "Better." It was a lie, I knew, but I made no comment; she turned to look out the window, and again I could see the heartbreaking sadness. "I only wish I could go out again."

I nodded. "You will be able to soon enough, Madame." I smiled, though my heart had begun to ache. "I'll take you for a walk in the _Jardin des Tuileries_, if you wish—the child as well."

Some memory of the old light returned to her eyes and some of the melancholy left. "That would be lovely, Monsieur!"

"Yes…yes, one last walk before you leave…"

There was a sharp intake of breath and she pressed back into her pillows. "Leave?"

I gestured tiredly. "Surely you will return to your husband after the birth—"

"Monsieur?" Her voice was timid, quiet and apprehensive. "Do you…want me to go?"

At her fearful question my throat began to constrict and I was forced to look away from her trembling figure. "I mean only that he could care for you far better."

"Monsieur—no—"

I grit my teeth; I would accept no more lies. "I have seen his home on the Rue Goethe," I said, more curtly than I had intended. "He's rather well-off. He could provide for you—better than Nadir or I." I looked back to see her eyes wide and fixed on me. "I merely assumed you would return."

She was shivering visibly now, fighting against the tears, and I suddenly felt a twinge of guilt. "No," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I…I had hoped to stay with you, and Monsieur Khan, if you would have me."

"Why?"

The question elicited one of the saddest laughs I have ever heard in my long life. It was downright painful. "I feel safe here," she whispered softly. "With you and Monsieur Khan." A sob at last broke through her quickly crumbling barriers and she pressed her small fists into her eyes, half laughing half sobbing. "_Please_, Monsieur Erik… Please, forgive me…"

As she cried and the guilt twisted, she began to choke—I recognized it as a fit and rushed to her, the most terrible fear surging through my veins. "_Calm, Madame!_" She reached out to me, shuddering and pale, and without another thought, I had her in my arms, her arms around my neck and her face buried in my shoulder. "Calm," I said again, quietly. "I understand—I do not blame you." I sighed as she slowly began to relax. "I merely want to know why you left him."

A whimper broke from her lips and I flinched. "Please… I can't tell you why—I'm sorry!" God, she was shaking so badly… "I just…can't…"

I swallowed. _No, he wouldn't dare… But then, he struck the other woman…_ I held her closer at the thought, my blood coursing through my veins like molten iron. "Did he hurt you?" I demanded harshly; she shuddered and shook her head for the negative. "Did he neglect you? Threaten you?"

"No," she said, clinging to me as she struggled to control her tears—I could feel the salty liquid through my suit and on my neck and I ached to brush them from her face. "No, Monsieur. He did nothing like that—he was the perfect husband." She whimpered, holding me tighter, her arms around my waist now, her face against my stomach. "It wasn't him…"

"Then _why?_"

I had pushed too hard. She had shoved me back and hit me. Not hard, but with enough force for me to stumble back, utterly bewildered. "I can't! _Please!_" Her face was pressed to the pillow now, but she was no longer crying—she was panting, all her energies having been depleted; even her anger was fading. "Please…don't ask me…"

I was uncomfortable, my stomach writhing in guilt. I suddenly felt very small and childish. What did it matter _why?_ "As you wish, Madame."

She swallowed, moving slowly and gingerly to a sitting position against the pillows. "Thank you, Erik," she said quietly. She took a deep breath—she looked so tired—and forced a small half-smile. "Will you read me a story?"

Her question completely threw me and for a moment I could nothing but stare. When I had managed to shake myself, I sighed and wearily smiled. "Of course. Which would you like?"

She leaned back and closed her eyes, the half-smile on her lips becoming wistful. "Oh please," she murmured, "_Alice in Wonderland_."

Of course Mignonette would pick such a fanciful, glistening tale; I smiled. "A fine choice. I quite enjoy it myself, truth be told."

The next three days passed in relative peace. I assumed my duties as a caregiver once more. It seemed also that Mignonette's fits became somewhat less frequent, and the welcome brightness returned to her beautiful emerald eyes again. God, I loved to hear her laugh—I fancied I could hear my unattainable Heaven in her sweet laugh. But always there was a feeling of encroaching darkness, of black clouds and rain. If I had only known…

Her first whimper awoke me slowly but the moment I was conscious enough to recognize the sound, I was at her bedside. She was leaning against the wall, clutching at her stomach and in horrible pain. The sheets around her were tangled and stained red. She began to pant, her eyes finding mine in the dark. "Erik," she whimpered before gasping from another wave of pain.

"_Mademoiselle!_" I am ashamed to say I panicked. The smell of the blood alone was enough to send me into something very near hysteria, and that is to say nothing of the stains or whimpers. I yelled for Nadir, flitting about Mignonette's bedside, my thoughts scattered and in complete disarray; I daresay I was incapable of a single coherent thought. Nadir appeared at the doorway, his thinning hair mussed horribly from sleep and his night clothes rumpled; his entire appearance leant him an air of the barely lucid. His eyes, however, were open and alert: he was wide awake.

"_Aziz_—is it time?" he asked, going to her at once, taking her hand as he felt her damp forehead; she nodded fearfully, a wince cracking her face. Nadir turned to the door, where Darius waited, and charged him with fetching Baudin—and all I could do was wring my hands in sheer panic as I paced the suddenly too-small room like a madman. Nadir smoothed the damp tendrils of ebony locks from her eyes, placing them behind her ears and out of the way; he smiled reassuringly as he carefully laid her back against the pillows. "Just breathe, _aziz_. The doctor will be here soon."

She let out a thin scream, unable to hold it back as she gripped Nadir's hand and the sheets. "But it hurts—!" She cried out and the sound nearly broke me into a thousand infinitesimal pieces; I simply could not think rationally—all my faculties had deserted me. "Oh, _God!_" I could not breathe now and I began to sink into a downward spiral of mindless panic as I hyperventilated. The daroga, after a moment, noticed my state of mind and scowled, grabbing my upper arm roughly and dragging me to the far corner of the room.

"Erik!" he snapped, shaking me. "_Calm down_, for Allah's sake!" I was panting harshly now, but Nadir's voice had cut short the worst of my delirium. "You're not doing her any good by panicking." I could only nod breathlessly. "You need to stay calm," he said evenly, his tone firm, "For her."

I forced a dry swallow down my throat and put a cold hand to my forehead. "Yes, yes," I mumbled, trembling slightly from the adrenaline in my system. "Of course." He studied me for a moment more before allowing me to return to her bedside; I took a deep breath to prepare myself for the role of the stable supporter. "Mademoiselle."

She latched onto me, almost before the greeting had left my mouth. "Erik—_it hurts!_" Pain had flooded her every sense and her emerald eyes were clouded with it as they pleaded with me to make it stop. It broke my heart—as trite as that may sound, I have no other way of describing the pain her suffering caused me.

I swallowed, stalling for more time to think of some comforting words I could offer to her (comforting had never come easily for me). "I…I know." I didn't, but at that point I would have said anything to make her feel better. "Just be brave, _ma chere_."

Her eyes were so large. "I'm scared," she whispered tremulously. Her grip on my hand tightened and I returned the gesture.

"It's all right," I told her, but I said it more to calm myself than anything. "It will be all right."

There was very little concept of time in that small room. All perception seemed to be governed by pain—that ebbing and flowing pain that seemed to eddy about the bed and in Mignonette's eyes. It could have been years between the painful contractions, or it may have been mere seconds—I was utterly oblivious to such concepts. I could see nothing in the room besides Mignonette. I could see nothing but her struggle and her every cry was like a knell that echoed in the lull between pains. Her every scream was like a small death—though whose death was a mystery.

Baudin arrived during a lull and Mignonette was half-asleep when Darius showed him in. Nadir's attention immediately turned to the physician and he nodded quickly. "Baudin."

Baudin waved away the greeting impatiently. "How long?"

"About a half hour or so," answered Nadir promptly.

The physician considered the information for a moment before nodding and going to the bedside, standing fearless next to the seat I was occupying. "Mignonette," he said soothingly in that tone I had always associated with Barye and the night of Sasha's death—and therefore had always hated. On the bed, she stirred slightly, groggily. "How do you feel?" It was then that another pain ripped through Mignonette's body and she screamed, curling over her protruding stomach, her eyes closed tightly against the affliction.

For a brief instant, a blazing hatred for the young physician and anger at the ridiculousness of the question flashed through my mind. "She's in pain!" I said savagely, biting my words sharply. "_Can't you see that?_"

However, instead of becoming angry himself—instead of becoming the enemy I could fight—Baudin merely gave me a calm and level look. "Yes. I am not blind, Monsieur." His hazel eyes turned to Mignonette and softened. "And I am afraid it will only get worse before it is over." My blood ran cold and he must have sensed my fear because he laid a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "The pain is normal," he continued, "Some would say it is a good thing. It means that she is progressing."

"Abel," Mignonette gasped, "Abel—how long?" She was shaking and I gently kissed her hand, in hopes that it would soothe her, even just a little.

Beside me, Baudin looked apologetic and hesitant. Finally, he said, "It differs, but nine to thirteen hours is the norm." Mignonette released a hopeless sob at his words.

As it turned out, Baudin was not far off in his prediction. Mignonette progressed well for a first-time mother. Per Baudin's orders, we begged, pleaded, and cajoled for Mignonette to eat and drink—to keep up her strength—at every lull. Reluctantly, she would. She would sleep as well, but those times were becoming far between and she was tiring quickly. After six hours, she could do nothing but lie limply in the bed and wait for the pain and the time when it would finally end.

"Erik…?"

It was a lull; she looked at me with half-lidded eyes, her lips parted somewhat. I answered, only half aware of her question. "Yes, mademoiselle?" I asked; the anxiety had driven me to exhaustion and I could hardly think properly now. "What is it?"

"Will…will you sing for me?"

The question sent a jolt to my mind and I tensed, suddenly fully aware. My throat closed from fear as the details and severity of the situation began to crush me beneath their weight. I swallowed, but it accomplished nothing. I looked away, avoiding her emerald gaze. "I…I can't." I closed my eyes as betrayal and guilt stirred in my gut. "I'll—I'll sing later. I'll sing you a lullaby."

I heard her whimper. "Erik," she whispered with a sudden desperate urgency. "Please, forgive me…"

I flinched in shame and guilt; I turned back to her, brushing away the single tear from her cheek and forcing a pathetic excuse for a wavering smile. "Of course, _ma petit_."

Things began to move quickly shortly after that. Mignonette's startled cry alerted us immediately that her water had broken. Baudin sprang into action, readying Mignonette for what he warned would be the hardest part of the delivery. He instructed her to bend her knees as she leaned against the pillows and to hold tightly to a towel that Nadir would secure at the end of the bed should she need it—like some perverse game of tug-o-war. I only held her hand, my own fear churning and writhing and making me sick as the acidic smell of blood reached me. There were tears in my eyes but I paid them no mind. Then it began. With each pain, Baudin urged her to push—always harder, always more—and Mignonette would scream. I would wince and try to ignore the pain in my hand (I was reasonably certain she had broken at least one of my fingers, given how hard she gripped them), mumbling helplessly all the while what had become my mantra: "It will be all right, it will be all right…" It seemed as though I could say nothing else.

Mignonette's cries were slowly destroying what little sanity I had, but—distantly—I heard Baudin say something, mutter something that sounded like "blood." Any worries or suspicions were cast from my mind, however, when a newborn's shriek rent the air only moments later. Baudin held the small, shriveled, screaming pink thing high and I finally let the tears come. I squeezed Mignonette's hand and kissed her knuckles, crying like a child in my relief.

She sighed in respite and exhaustion, but I could see a worn, content smile on her lips. "Erik," she whispered. She was so pale, but I did not notice that then, and her hair was spread about her on the pillows, the sweat glistening on her forehead and neck.

"Yes?"

Her smiled widened a fraction. Tiredly she closed her eyes. "Thank you, Erik…"

I laughed, almost cheerfully, kissing her hand again. Baudin came to me then, weary but grinning in triumph. He held out the child and I released Mignonette's hand to accept the bundle—a girl. I looked down at the babe in nothing short of wonder and awe. She was perfect. I swallowed thickly. "Mignonette—oh, she's _beautiful!_"

After a moment, I realized that she had not answered; I frowned a little. "Mignonette?"

Nothing.

I looked away from the babe; her face was clam, restful, but she was so pale—_too_ pale. She was a deathly, ashen _white_. She was not moving. I called again, louder. And again. Over and over and over and over—but she did not wake.

* * *

—End Chapter—

* * *

**A****/N:** …Please, _review!_

1. _Aziz_—as said in the text, it means "dear" in Persian. Actually, Farsi—but I believe that there is a good chance that Farsi was Nadir's native language, given that I found both the word "shah" and "khanum" in the same dictionary.


	8. Lullaby

**A/N:** (Cowers) Please don't kill me… Also, sorry I haven't posted on this before now. I've been out of the country for the last two years, and the rest of this story is back home. I move back home in a month though, so I might have time to start working on this again. I think there was only maybe 5 chapters left in any case.

A special note to Mominator124/Barb: I hope you remembered it! Thanks for your lovely review! Likewise goes to all my other reviews - they really do give motivation, even if it doesn't seem like it due to my long silence. I do re-read them periodically to get inspiration, so it **_does_** help.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own, not making any money! However, I _**do**_ own Mignonette and her baby—please ask before borrowing.

**Ratings:** PG-13

**Genre:** Angst

**Warnings:** Character death

**Main Characters:** Erik, Nadir

**Additional Notes:** See? I told you she wasn't a Mary Sue. Please don't kill me for the last chapter! (Hides from pointy objects and tomatoes and pointy objects _hidden_ _in_ tomatoes) In other news, this chapter is from Nadir's POV, for reasons that will soon be obvious.

_Be My Shelter_

_**Chapter 7: **__Lullaby_

I had never seen Erik so completely lost before. For the long twelve hour birth, he seemed frantic and quite disconnected. He seemed scattered. Seeing him that way shook me deeply, and some vague pillar of stability cracked from the pinnacle to the foundations. And yet, I soon realized that it was merely because he'd had no experience with labor or the birth of a child—he had no idea what to expect. I could see some unfamiliar emotion clouding his flame-like eyes and it was a long while before I could place it. It was fear. It was such a foreign emotion on him and it rattled me, as I have said.

In any case, the birth itself went rather normally—though the pain pervading the small room seemed to be greater than I remembered (but, of course, that was so long ago that I was most likely mistaken). The _banchche_1 was healthy—a girl-child born of an angel, as far as I was concerned. She was perfect. I could not keep the foolish grin from my face—it seemed right, somehow, that Baudin handed the child to Erik. Erik, for his part, was crying freely, the tears flowing from beneath the mask. It was a treat to see Erik cradle the _banchche_ in his arms, hardly daring to breathe for fear he'd shatter the fragile creature. It was almost amusing to see the confident, murdering loner be so reverent and fearful of a single newborn.

"Mignonette—oh, she's _beautiful!_" I heard him say, and I smiled to myself.

The smile disappeared when it became apparent that something was horribly wrong. Erik had begun to call frantically for her to answer, the _banchche_ now clutched tightly to his chest, as though he feared he would lose it. Baudin rushed to her side, a frown contorting his features, and put a hand to her neck. He cursed and I knew then. There had been too much blood. He tried—Allah, he tried—but it was too late to save her.

"Baudin?"

There were tears in his eyes. "Gone," he choked. "She's...she's gone. _Goddamit!_" I could see something die in him as he looked at Mignonette through the tears.

I felt numb. As I stared, I could hear nothing but his words echoing in the new silence. Erik had stopped yelling and was sitting quietly now, rocking the child carefully. His eyes were fixed on Mignonette's frozen expression of rest and a kind of weary peace. His eyes, however, were vacant and had I not been in shock myself, I might have realized that he was broken. If the _banchche_ had not begun to wail, the three of us would've stared for hours, reveling in the numb blackness of shock, the absence of responsibility. The _banchche_'s wail saved my mind from drowning in its own blackness—and the memories—and it gave me something to apply myself to. Erik's vacant eyes had lowered slowly to stare down at the _banchche_. I swallowed.

"Erik," I murmured, "Give her to me." His eyes snapped up to my face, anger and a fierce protectiveness flashing in the hollowness. It was clear with that one look that I would not be allowed to part the child from his arms; I swallowed again. "All right then—you will have to feed her. Can you do that?" It was obvious he had no clue. I gestured for him to follow me, impatient to escape the room, and he reluctantly did so. I led him to the kitchen and made him sit on the small stool I kept there as I prepared the milk from the ice box. I rarely buy milk, but I had bought it for Mignonette's health; I was thankful for it now. The _banchche_ began to cry again once the milk was warming and Erik looked up at me helplessly. I knew little of _banchche_, but I knew enough to comfort them when they cried.

I closed my eyes for a moment. "Erik, rock her—she's only hungry." Wordlessly, awkwardly, he did as he was told. It did nothing to calm the hungry newborn, but, thankfully, the milk was soon warm enough to give to the _banchche_. Patiently, I showed Erik how to feed her using a clean rag and the bowl of warm milk. He learned quickly, as was his wont, but still he seemed distant, a prisoner of his own immense psyche. I watched them sadly for a time before I returned to Baudin. He was sitting in the chair Erik had vacated, his head in his hands and his shoulders shaking. He had covered Mignonette's body with a sheet.

"Baudin?" I murmured, keeping my eyes carefully averted from the bed.

He swallowed and attempted to compose himself; his eyes were red when he looked at me. He looked away quickly and I could see that he was gripping his knees. "I cleaned her," he said softly. "There's nothing else I can do here."

"The child?" I did not cross the threshold and stayed, instead, in the doorway. "Is the _banchche_—the baby healthy?"

He closed his eyes. "Yes, the child is fine. Very strong cry—a good sign, always." He swallowed, looking down at his hands. "A very good sign."

I took a deep breath. "Do you know where I might hire a reliable wet nurse?"

He looked up at me then, surprise clear in his pained hazel eyes. "You're keeping the child?" I nodded; he looked back at Mignonette's covered body. "I would have thought you'd give it to Monsieur Descoteaux."

I gestured absently. "She…was…rather clear in her desire that Erik care for the child, should anything…"

My tongue was thick and heavy in my mouth and I looked away. I heard Baudin shift and get to his feet. For a while there was silence, and then he spoke again. "That's good," he said. "I could see she was quite fond of you both." He paused. "I know a woman… quite gentle and able to keep her secrets..." His eyes were infinitely sad now. "I shall…call on the undertaker on the way back as well…"

"Thank you," I said quietly. They were hollow words—we both knew it. There was little to be thankful for, besides the _banchche_.

For a moment he looked uncomfortable. "Of course," he said and passed me, following Darius to the door; he stopped at the threshold. "I will be back soon," he told me, once more playing the part of dutiful doctor. I merely nodded, my eyes to the floor and the Persian rug that had been smuggled from my old home in Ashraf. I was only vaguely aware that he left a moment later.

"Master?" Darius laid a hesitant hand on my arm and I turned to see his eyes fixed worriedly on me.

I sighed. "Leave me," I murmured, waving away his hand. He bowed and I waited until I heard the door to his quarters close before I finally entered Mignonette's room and shut myself in. Once alone, all of the numbness encasing me broke and I nearly drowned in the resulting flood. My knees weakened suddenly and it was all I could do to stumble to the little chair, sitting with my eyes to the sheets. My vision began to blur and I let it, dropping my head to rest on the bedside. I let the tears come, but quietly. Inside I could feel a black emptiness so cold as to freeze the very Mazenderan sun. I remembered this well—this feeling of pure emptiness. It was the same as it was then, at my parents' deaths, Rookheeya's, and lastly Reza's.

And now, Mignonette's.

My body shook with my sobs, my back tensing and arching. Allah, it hurt. Allah… Where was my God now? For years I had prayed to Him. For years I had been faithful. When my parents had died I had asked where He was—and they told me that He had a plan. When Rookheeya had been committed, I had asked again—with the same answer. With Reza's death I had paraded it again, angry and bitter—but this time there was someone to blame. This time there was Erik. For a long time I believed I blamed Erik—because I could not blame myself, and I could not blame Allah. Erik was the easiest target. Of course, I soon realized my mistake—he had loved Reza as much as I had. There was no one left to blame after that, and I convinced myself that I had made my peace with it. A lie, of course; but it was the only thing I had.

And now, Mignonette. Allah, she was so cold when I touched her hand…

And so I asked the question again: _Where is my God now?_

There was no answer and I wept. I wept for the child Mignonette had been. I wept for the child I had lost long ago and the child I had lost again in her.

It wasn't until the undertaker arrived that I was able to rouse myself. He was a tall man—not as tall as Erik, but tall with a kind of teenage lankiness—and he filled the room with his sombre presence. He had the look of a man who was eternally resigned to the singular role of Charon2. His name was Jacques Dupont. He bowed courteously with a forlorn sigh. "Where is she?" he asked bluntly and without civilized preamble; I felt as though I had been slapped.

It was a moment before I could answer. "This way." I lead him to her room, my eyes half-closed—I was quite in a daze.

Immediately, dispassionately, he went to work with a small tape measurer that had appeared in his hand. As he worked, I found myself studying him to keep from seeing him for what he was. He was clad in a formal evening suit and I briefly wondered if he had come from the opera, and if so, the Comédie-Française, or the Théâtre Daunou? The Comédie-Française was certainly closer, but then, he did not seem as though he would enjoy comedy. So the Théâtre Daunou, then. I shook my head—it didn't matter! The only thing that currently mattered was in the kitchen with Erik, being fed warm milk. M. Dupont had soon moved to stand in front of me in the doorway, the top of his opera hat nearly brushing the doorframe.

"Monsieur," he said lightly, "There is a coffin at the workshop that will suit her fine, with some minor alterations. I can retrieve her tomorrow evening—the work will be completed by then, surely."

All the while he had been talking, I had begun to feel slightly lightheaded. I closed my eyes a moment, leaning against the wall, relishing the small relief of the cool plaster against my too-warm skin. "Of course," I mumbled absently, strained.

M. Dupont frowned. "Monsieur? Are you quite all right?" A thin groan escaped my lips and I distantly heard Darius return. "God, man, you're pale! You, there! Go get a bowl—I believe he's going to be ill."

He was right of course. Luckily, Darius managed to get one of the less used metal cooking bowls in time. Soon enough, I was lying on the couch, heaving over the side into the cold silver bowl. When there was at last nothing left in my stomach, I laid down, shaking somewhat with the acidic taste of bile and vomit clinging to my mouth. I was panting. "Forgive me…"

"Quite all right," he murmured. "It happens surprisingly often in my line of work." I sighed, closing my eyes; I would let Darius tend to the undertaker's demands. I turned my face to the back of the divan. Darius seemed to understand immediately and he led M. Dupont away.

When I finally woke, it was dawn and I was allowed nearly an hour to delude myself that the events of the night before had never occurred—that Mignonette was not dead. My uneasy peace was disrupted, however, by the _banchche's_ squall. With that single sound it all returned—the emptiness and the ice—and I remembered. For a time I could do nothing but cry weakly myself, listening to the sound of someone attempting to quietly hush the child. One thought eventually gained purchase in my tear-soaked mind: _Erik doesn't know what to do…_ With no little effort, I pulled myself to my feet and followed the child's squalls. It soon became apparent that the sound was issuing from Mignonette's room and I swallowed, my stomach twisting painfully.

_Oh Erik…why?_

He was seated in the little chair by the bedside again, rocking the _banchche_ with some strange look of nonchalance, humming softly. There was something in the scene that seemed so unbefitting, so _wrong_ that it made my stomach lurch horribly in a threatening manner. Upon closer study I found the element which had given me such pause: there was a thin, but undeniable smile curling Erik's misshapened lips. My first reaction was anger, but an acute sense of dread soon replaced it. I swallowed hesitantly going to his side.

"Erik?"

He did not look away from the squalling child's face, but his humming ceased. "Quiet, daroga," he hissed. "You'll wake her." I frowned at this but his next statement, delivered with such tenderness, such fondness, produced a cold, terrifying realization. "Mignonette is tired and needs her rest." I watched, silently horrified, as he reached out a skeletal hand to pat the body's stiff, deathly cold arm. "Isn't that so, _ma petit mère__3__?_ Of course it is…"

_He…doesn't realize…?_ "Erik," I said, my voice strained and weak. _Allah, let him hear me!_ "Erik—she's _dead._"

Erik was stock-still, his back ramrod straight and his shoulders tense. "Don't be a fool daroga!" he snapped, but I could sense rather than hear the undertone of raw and painful fear in his ethereal voice. "She is resting."

I could do little more than release a strangled groan. "_She is dead!_ She has bled to death, Erik—can't you see that?"

"Do not lie, Nadir; it is unbecoming," he muttered, but the scent of denial and fear was nearly tangible now; the child continued to wail.

"Stop it!" I could contain myself no longer. Soon enough I was crying again, angry and shaking. "Stop it, Erik! She is gone and will never return—no matter how you pretend—_she is dead!_"

Erik's thin frame was shuddering harshly now. At length, I noticed the mutterings, such small sounds that I should have missed them. "No…he's _lying_—isn't he, _ma petit mère?_ Yes, he is lying. Why do you not answer? Please, mademoiselle, come and see your child—such a beautiful child… Mademoiselle? _Please_… Tell me he's lying—tell me you haven't…_tell me you haven't left me…_"

The fingers of his free hand were tangled, laced with the body's and he was clutching them desperately; he looked absolutely terrified.

"Erik," I said softly. "She is dead." He flinched as though he had been struck, his shoulders hunched and trembling; I could not help but take pity on him, all my previous anger melting. "But she has not left you alone—she has left you the _banchche_."

He swallowed, and slowly his shaking lessened. Time passed in silence and watched him slowly piece together something new, stitch the broken threads into something only slightly stronger. He was panting quietly with the effort, but he seemed to have recovered himself somewhat—though I knew it would be a long while before he would recover enough to act as the Erik I had once known. He sighed heavily, the sound wet and telling of the sobs he was stubbornly holding at bay. "Yes," he murmured at last. "She has left me a dear treasure…"

He laughed weakly and I could see how close he was to collapse. He rose, the _banchche_ still to his chest, and with a horribly tragic smile kissed Mignonette's cold forehead with such loving tenderness that my thoughts immediately brought an image I had long buried to my mind. Rookheeya, my beloved wife. She had always been beautiful and death did little to tarnish her—she was still a jewel to my eyes, even in Death's black grip. I had kissed her, as well, even as Erik now kissed his Mignonette. It tore at my heart.

A moment later and Erik had straightened, adjusting the child in his arms. His eyes were still inaccessible. "The child needs to be fed," he stated, looking down at the small face.

I nodded. "Yes—the milk—"

"I know." He said nothing else as he passed by me and disappeared down the hall with the squalling infant. I sighed. _Allah help him, if You exist at all…_

Returning to my own quarters, I found that I was restless; I simply could not sit still. Memories of Rookheeya and my dear Reza filled my mind, dusty and somewhat faded with memories of Mignonette overlaying them all. I could feel Rookheeya's gentle kisses—I could hear Reza's innocent laughter—could see Mignonette's cold face. I shook my head sharply, shuddering and sickly cold. A sudden, harsh cough burned my throat, already sore and raw from retching; I winced. At length, I laid down with a terrible feeling of fatigue. I hoped against hope that I would not dream.

It seemed that I had barely closed my eyes when Darius woke me, though in reality it had been quite a few hours (but hardly past noon). I groaned, rolling over to glare half-heartedly—the interruption was not welcome. "Darius?"

He bit his lip, bowing. "Forgive me, Master," he said with genuine sincerity. "But there is a lady here to see you."

A frown stole my features—until I remembered Baudin. _The wet nurse…_ I nodded tiredly, getting to my feet; I did not even bother to make myself presentable for I cared little for appearances at present. The woman was waiting in the sitting room, perched daintily on a chair with her thin ankles tucked beneath it, and her hands folded primly in her lap. Her face was altogether pleasant, though somewhat horsy—she was English, I supposed—and her mousy brown hair fell to her shoulders, framing her clear blue eyes. She rose the moment she noticed my presence.

"Monsieur," she murmured, curtsying slightly. "My name is Theresa Darrow—I was informed by Doctor Baudin that you require the services of a wet nurse."

"Yes—the mother…the mother passed shortly after the birth." An odd light of pity flickered in the thirty-something's face. My thoughts began to become hazy and I frowned. "We will require your services until the child can be weaned."

"Of course," said Mme. Darrow.

She seemed eager to begin her duties at once and her eagerness only made me all the more weary. I held up a hand. "You will live here, of course," I continued; she nodded, something of impatience entering her features. "But, I must warn you that your presence may be unwelcome here."

She frowned. "Monsieur?"

I offered her a faintly apologetic twist of my lips. "I live here with two others, at the moment—my servant, Darius, and my friend, a man named Erik." To stall for more time so that I could think of a way to broach the subject of Erik, I wandered to the window and looked out at the Rue de Rivoli. "Erik…is curious and solitary in his habits—he prefers to be left to himself at all costs. As well, he…he wears a mask at all times, and I beg of you, Madame Darrow, to pay it no mind. Am I clear?" She seemed too stunned to speak, but I _had _to know. "He has a terrible, violent temper," I warned her gravely. "But no harm shall come to you if you leave him to himself and _think nothing of the mask_—do you understand?"

It seemed that the warning shook her to her senses and she nodded, a vague air of fear to the motion. "Yes, Monsieur."

"Good." I sighed, pressing my fingers to my temples tiredly. "Your room should be ready by tonight."

"Thank you."

Silence filled the sitting room then, broken only by the chime of the old clock on the mantel. Between chimes, I could hear the tick of the second hand slowly marching on, unabashedly marking every second since Mignonette's death. The sound seemed akin to that of some horrible insect beating its stiff wings uselessly against the walls of the glass jar that had imprisoned it—beating against the unforgiving translucence until it finally killed itself. The sound slipped beneath my skin, twisting and writhing beneath my flesh—it was slowly driving me insane—as I was certain it had Erik.

"May I see the child?" The sound of Mme. Darrow's voice startled me and I jumped somewhat, glancing quickly at her before fixing my gaze elsewhere.

I bit my lip; I knew where I would find the child. "Madame, the child is currently in Erik's care…"

Unease crept into her posture, but she held her ground. "Please, Monsieur—I will keep my peace. I promise."

It seemed that she would not be denied, and—while my first instinct was to keep her away from Erik for as long as possible—I realized that it was futile. They would meet eventually, so better now than later. At least she had not yet become attached to the _banchche_. I sighed, making a helpless gesture. "Very well then," I muttered, turning to lead her to Erik's room. "But I must warn you—he has not been himself since…since the child's mother passed." I did not look at her until we reached the door; only when my hand was resting on the brass doorknob did I face her. She was pale now, but there was a gleam of stark determination in her blue eyes. I knocked.

"Come in, daroga."

I gauged her reaction carefully from then on out. At the sound of Erik's voice, she sucked in a startled breath, her eyes widening in absolute surprise and wonder. _It is always the same_, I noted. _First the awe—then the screaming. _ I opened the door and announced myself and Mme. Darrow. Erik was standing at the window, his back to us, as he rocked the _banchche_—he seemed lost in thought.

"What do you want, daroga?" he snapped gently.

I answered before Mme. Darrow could, though she was surely about to. "Madame Darrow would like to see the baby."

For a long moment he considered the matter and it was almost as though I could see the well-kept cogs of his vast mind at work, turning the opportunities and outcomes and benefits over and over in his head. He turned then and made his own analysis of Mme. Darrow with a nearly caustic eye. He frowned deeply, his faintly luminous eyes fixed on the woman—who, for her part, did exactly as I had instructed, merely glancing at the mask; her full attention was on the _banchche_.

"You are the wet nurse then, Madame?" he asked curtly, his eyes narrowing.

Mme. Darrow nodded. "May I see the child?"

Erik ignored the woman's question; he cocked his head to the side in a semi-interested fashion. "How does one become a wet nurse?" he asked absently, though his eyes burned. With a jolt, I realized he was testing the woman. He was trying to drive her away.

The question, however, had the opposite effect on Mme. Darrow; she held her head a little higher, her own eyes flashing in determination. "My own child was still-born," she said quietly, the note of steel in her voice challenging. "I decided I might as well be useful instead crying over what cannot be changed."

Hesitation seemed to cross Erik's mind before he nodded and reluctantly held out the child. "Be careful," he muttered, but it seemed that the warning went further than the _banchche_.

With sudden tenderness, Mme. Darrow received the child and began to coo nonsense—and the child cooed as well, for the first time to my knowledge. Mme. Darrow sighed softly. "What is her name?"

It was a shock to my system, the realization that the _banchche_ had yet to be granted a name. I bit my lip and turned to Erik. He was impassive. For a moment, though, it seemed a sad affection was reflected in his eyes. "Avìn," he whispered. "Her name shall be Avìn."

I frowned—the name, though beautiful, was entirely foreign to my ears. "Erik?"

He closed his eyes, turning back to his window. "It means 'Dawn' in the language of the Roma4." He had spoken the name with such reverence that I knew there was some great significance attached to it in his mind. He did not clarify and seemed to forget we were present.

Even Mme. Darrow seemed to realize Erik's need for solitude. "It is a beautiful name," she said quietly. "Monsieur, if I may, I would begin my duties…" Erik nodded, dismissing us with a short, strained gesture. The message was clear.

As promised, the undertaker returned that evening, an hour before sunset, to collect Mignonette's body—Baudin had come as well. It was then that I was informed that M. Descoteaux now knew of his wife's death. Thus far, Baudin had kept him from discussing the issue of the child, but it was only a matter of time, I knew. In the meantime, Descoteaux had placed Baudin in charge of the funeral arrangements. The funeral, it was decided, would be held in two days.

What I had not expected, however, was Mme. Theresa Darrow's somewhat comforting presence in the flat. Her husband, she told me, was in England, serving under the Queen, and so there was little to distract her from concentrating all her attentions on Avìn and the other household chores she had adopted. The woman was a gift from Allah, I thought—though each time, I remembered Mignonette and thought better. She was a kind woman and nothing more. At the very least, Erik seemed to tolerate her presence, though he rarely left his room in the two days before the funeral. He was quieter than he had ever been—for even in the rosy hours of Mazenderan there had been quiet music drifting between the white halls and bleak minutes. I began to fear for what sanity he had somehow managed to retain as he seemed to draw the veil of silence around him like a shroud. The only thing he seemed to care for now was the _banchche_—for certainly no longer cared for himself. He was not eating, of that I was fairly confident for he seemed to be withering away before my very eyes and it hurt somehow because I had seen, and I remembered, what he had once been. In regards to the funeral, Erik and I decided wordlessly that we would not go to the mass for Mignonette, but I could hear, in the silence of the night, the solemn strains of the _Dies Irae_5 from the hollow violin.

The morning of the funeral dawned bright and impertinently cheerful—the world was turning as it always had and the knowledge caused me indescribable anger. We were waiting at the cemetery when the procession came. Abel Baudin was among the mourners, accompanied by a plain, simple woman, whom I could only assume was his sister Lydie. Much to my vexation, Tristan Descoteaux had decided to attend as well, though the sight of his genuine grief gave me some vague sense of mercy. It was a good while before he noticed Erik and I, but his eyes—red from long hours of crying—hardened and he tensed the moment he did. Beside me in the shadows provided by a lone willow tree, Erik stiffened, his jaw and fists clenching in sudden wariness. Their eyes met above the noise and a silent understanding and temporary treaty was reached—there would be no hostility on this hallowed ground. They would not defile Mignonette's memory with hatred.

The priest spoke slowly, his old and dying voice curling about the polished stones and decaying flowers. I did not listen. All my agonized mind could see was Rookheeya and Reza as they had looked in the moments before they were returned to the earth. Again, I could hear Erik's whispers and the funereal quavering voice of the violin, the old Latin requiem somehow known and understood in my ears:

"_Dies iræ! dies illa_

_Solvet sæclum in favilla_

_Teste David cum Sibylla6!_

_Judex ergo cum sedebit,_

_Quidquid latet apparebit:_

_Nil inultum remanebit7._

_Quid sum miser tunc dicturus?_

_Quem patronum rogaturus,_

_Cum vix justus sit securus8?_

_Juste judex ultionis,_

_Donum fac remissionis_

_Ante diem rationis.__9_"

I closed my eyes from the sight of the priest and the men with their shovels and the black gowns of the faceless women—Allah, the world seemed to have turned the bleakest shade of black!—and let the words fill me. _Day of wrath and terror looming! Heaven and earth to ash consuming, David's word and Sibyl's truth foredooming! So when the Judge shall sit, whatever is hidden shall be seen, nothing shall remain unpunished. What am I, a wretched one, to say, what protector implore, when even a just person will scarcely be confident? Just judge of vengeance, grant the gift of forgiveness, before the day of reckoning'…_

Soon the thing was done and the mourners began to drift back to the land of the living, locking the memories behind the iron gates of the golgotha. Erik and I were soon alone with naught but the weepers for company. Or so we thought. We had kept some distance away and our view had been obstructed by various monuments and mottled effigies of stone and marble; we did not see the woman until we had nearly reached the black and silver headstone. Her red hair was tangled and free of any ties in her grief, as it fell to her waist. She was on her knees, her beautiful black dress was surely ruined but she continued to sob and clutch at the cold marble stone, running her fingers over the inscription on the cold marble like a blind woman; there was a desperation in this act which pained me beyond words.

I swallowed. "Madame—"

"Mademoiselle," she corrected quietly, still now as I stood beside her; she shuddered harshly and one hand stretched to cover her white face. "I shall never be _Madame_ in this world." There was such a brokenness in her words that I flinched.

"Forgive me." The woman did not turn to face me. "Mademoiselle," I continued, though why was a mystery. "You…you knew Madame Descoteaux?"

A dry sob forced itself from her throat. "Yes—well," she replied through her slowing tears. "_God_, she's gone! She's gone!"

Some vestige of etiquette was urging me to leave the woman to her grief but it wasn't to be. Erik, who for his part had been despondent and silent, spoke suddenly, his eyes flashing. "How?" he demanded. "How did you know her? What was she to you?"

The audacities of the questions brought an immediate protest to my lips, but at the woman's choked reply the rebuke fell to the dirt, unsaid. She had finally turned to look at us and her eyes were a strange shade of grey—she returned her distant gaze to the gravestone at Erik's harsh question and a bitter, humorless laugh bubbled like acid from her throat. "It doesn't matter anymore," she said. "Now that she's dead—nothing seems to matter anymore—, I can say it." She clutched at her chest now, rocking slightly. "Oh God, I've never said it—not once! She was my friend, she was my confidante, my lover—my Everything."

It was a slap to the face, the revelation. "L-Lover?" I stuttered, and she nodded sadly.

Beside me, Erik couldn't contain a small gasp and recognition flickered across his eyes. "You're Camille—aren't you?"

Her grey eyes tore themselves from the stone to study Erik with open, yet muted, surprise. "Yes," she murmured slowly, carefully. "Camille de Sauveterre."

"Then you must know what happened," breathed Erik, his entire demeanor suddenly melting to that of a frightened and desperate child. "To Mignonette—_you must!_"

"Erik!" My cry went nearly entirely unheeded.

The woman, Camille, held up a hand, motionless and considering. "I do," she said quietly, steadily, before a harsh shudder tore through her thin frame. She turned her face to the ground. "Tristan found us out. We…we were together without his knowledge for a year—but that day—" She moaned. "—that day he returned early. He walked in on us. We were betrayed by a single kiss."

Erik's eyes closed behind the mask and I was certain that Camille's words had been as a poisoned knife to his heart. He drew in a shaky breath. "I am sorry, mademoiselle."

Camille's eyes never left her lover's grave. "So am I," she whispered. Wordlessly, Erik turned on heel and began back down the path to the gates of Golgotha, but somehow I knew that his heart would remain within its cold stone walls.

After our return to the flat, Erik retreated to his room for a full three days before emerging. He was as a ghost in the weak lamplight. His skin was white and bleached and his hands shook lightly. He had lost nearly all of the old grace that had once dictated his movements. I could easily see the loss of weight as I watched him lower himself into the adjacent armchair. I swallowed as I watched him close his eyes and wrap himself in an impenetrable silence; and I knew—this could not continue.

"Erik?" He did not even acknowledge me. "Erik," I said again, sharper. "You haven't been eating, have you?"

He sighed. "Leave me be, daroga."

"I will not," I snapped, leveling a glare at him. "You need to take better care of yourself—after all, Avìn is your responsibility now." His white hands clenched on the armrest and he opened his eyes to meet mine. "Stop being so selfish—"

"Close your mouth, daroga, before I close it for you." His voice was quiet but as hard as a steal blade, metallic and just as threatening. "I will not have you speaking of things which you know nothing of."

The comment stung but I ignored it. "Please Erik," I murmured, leaning forward and hesitantly reaching a hand towards his arm; he hastily moved away and I swallowed. "Can't you see you're killing yourself?" I asked, my voice a whisper. I got to my feet with a sigh at his silence. "What would Mignonette think?" I did not wait for his reaction as I returned to my room. The next morning I found a small collection of dirty dishes in the kitchen and Darius hadn't a clue where they came from. I sighed in relief.

Over the next week Erik's physical health made a slow return, though it all seemed by rote. Mme. Darrow had settled with us well, turning a blind eye to our small acts of grief. The _banchche_—Avìn—was the only light, however. She was the only precious thing I had left. Mme. Darrow, thankfully, was a gentle and caring woman, though occasionally strict in her ways. She kept to herself mostly. I was unable to find a true fault in the woman, but it was Avìn that had captured all our hearts.

So it came as a shock when Baudin came to call on the sixth day after the funeral.

He was solemn and was obviously still in mourning. Darius showed him in and somehow I knew by his gaze that he carried no good word that day. Erik must have also realized this—perhaps he even suspected the cause—for he stood in the doorway, his arms across his chest and his eyes hard, frigid. Baudin himself seemed troubled and did not sit, but moved instead to the mantel, as was his habit.

"Monsieur Baudin?" The atmosphere was suffocating me, and I could take the silence no longer. "What is it?"

He swallowed. "Monsieur Descoteaux has demanded that the child be returned to him," he muttered uneasily, "Before three days have passed."

"_What?_" growled Erik, his eyes flashing with sudden anger. "Absolutely _not!_"

Baudin sighed tiredly. "Monsieur—"

"_I_ am the child's father now," snapped Erik, his anger building quickly now. "Mignonette entrusted her to _me!_"

With a helpless look, Baudin turned to me. I shook my head. "It's true."

"Monsieur Khan!" Baudin was pleading now, entirely exasperated. "I know she did, but Monsieur Descoteaux will have none of it! He insists!"

"Then let him," hissed Erik. "The child stays."

I sighed as Erik disappeared once more into the dark solitude of his room, shutting the door firmly behind him and causing Baudin to flinch as though he'd been struck. "Forgive Erik," I muttered. "This has not been easy on him." Baudin nodded, mopping his forehead with his kerchief. I bit my lip and wondered—did he know of Camille? The truth of Mignonette's flight? Surely… "Do you know a woman named…Camille de Sauveterre?"

"So you've met her," he said evenly, a tired light in his hazel eyes. "I know what you're asking—and yes, I knew of Mignonette's affair with her." He spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "She told me of her feelings for women long ago—she had thought herself ill or mad."

My heart ached at the thought of Mignonette's despairing confusion. It had not been unknown in Persia, this love between men and love between women—but it was forbidden by Allah, of course. Flames, I had always been taught, were all that awaited those that fell to its temptation. _But this time—surely He will make an exception for her…_

When Baudin had departed, I felt a great foreboding _need_ to see the _banchche_. Avìn still slept in Mme. Darrow's room and so I knew where to find her—Mme. Darrow was out gathering groceries. My heart was pounding and a warning was beating at the back of my skull. The hall was empty and something was wrong—the air felt heavy and thick and I felt as though I was walking through mud. At one end of the hall, Erik's door stood open—it seemed the darkness spilled from its confines causing me to shudder; two doors down from Erik's sanctuary was the room that had been Mignonette's and now belonged to Mme. Darrow and Avìn. Its door, too, was ajar. I was hesitant to enter, and under normal circumstances I would have left Erik to himself with the child and his memories of Mignonette, but, as it was, the darkness ushered me forward and through the door.

What I found left me cold. Erik, nothing more than a solidified shadow in the vague shape of a man, was standing at the edge of the bassinet, his eyes fixed on Avìn's slumbering form. In itself, this was not odd—no, it was the manner in which Erik was staring. He had murder glinting wickedly in his flame-eyes. I could hardly breathe—I had seen that look before in Persia and I knew well its aftermath.

I swallowed thickly, my throat horribly raw and dry. "Erik…"

The shadow did not move, nor look away from the child's peacefully sleeping face. I was shaking and fearful until I heard him sigh. It was a sound full of the deepest sorrows of the world and all the blackness and bleakness, a sound of loss and resigned weariness. "I know," he whispered. "The child is not to blame."

He left then, brushing past me and heading toward his room. He stopped, however, on the threshold and I could see the profile of his mask and bare chin, his hand on the doorframe. "You should sleep well tonight, daroga. The morning will bring a new day." And he was gone before I could question him.

Contrary to Erik's suggestion, I did not have a restful night. Nightmares plagued me, crimson and black dreams that woke me sometime in the dead of night. I was shaking, covered in a cold sweat; I coughed harshly, gasping. Again, I had the intense feeling that something was wrong—worse this time. My pulse was flittering thinly as I looked in on Avìn, ignoring the inquiry of Mme. Darrow, but it nearly stopped when I came to Erik's door. It stood open and across the murky blackness, I could see the drapes billowing across the open window. My blood ran cold.

Erik was gone.

With a sudden sick certainty, I knew where had vanished to—and I was in no doubt it was not the opera house. I did not bother with the door. I climbed out the window as Erik must have and once on the Rivoli I hailed a cab, panting, my mind racing in dread.

"The Rue Goethe—and do not stop for man nor beast!"

I had been stupid. I cursed myself a hundred times over as the cab hurtled through the mostly deserted streets of Paris. How could I have been so blind? How could I not have known? Why hadn't I realized? I was such a fool! Such a stupid, old _fool_ not to realize it immediately—the moment I had seen his eyes, so filled with hate and murderous intent, fixed on the cause of Mignonette's death—or rather, the by-product. His thought progression on the matter was easy enough to follow, now that I had realized. At first he had blamed the _banchche_ for Mignonette's death—as I had blamed him for Reza's—that couldn't have lasted long however, and he must have realized that the child was innocent of all crime, for she had not intentionally done anything. The next logical choice would have to be the child's father—the perfect whipping boy: M. Descoteaux. I only prayed that I arrived in time to avert the slaughter.

The street was dark with only the pale moonlight and the weakly flickering lamplight casting deep shadows on every hedge and shrub and tree. The walks and gardens were deserted and still; my eyes strained to see any movement as I ordered my driver to wait while I dropped lightly to the street. At length, I caught the barest flicker of motion in the shadows of the third villa down from my carriage; I followed silently, well aware that the slightest sound would alert the monster to my presence—and, with Erik's current state, bring about my death. There was a light burning in the second floor window above the quaint garden and Erik paused beneath it, no doubt contemplating the best way to scale the side. I moved swiftly, knocking him into the hard wall and holding him there, despite his struggles and protests. Under normal conditions, I would have been no match for Erik, but as it were he was still too malnourished from his bereavement to harm me seriously—though he managed to throw me off him and I stumbled back, panting.

"Nadir!" His eyes glowed in the black night, flashing in fury as he advanced on me. "Why have you followed me? You insufferable _ass!_ Must Erik kill you as well?"

My eyes widened and I held up my hands, pleading. "Erik, _please_—"

"Stay out of this," he ground out, making to push past me; simple but pure fear of his bloodlust drove me to seize his arm. He turned on me, cuffing my right ear sharply. "Stupid _fool_," he spat, his voice harsh and metallic. "Let me go! I'll kill him—that—it should have been him!"

My head was reeling from the blow, but I would not release him to his grim task—I could sense his resolve and ire weakening, melting to desperate rage and despair. I swallowed, glaring. "Erik, I understand how you feel, but you can't—"

"_Understand?_" he roared suddenly, wrenching free to face me, towering in his vehemence. "How could you possibly _understand?_ You've never—"

He stopped abruptly, his eyes wide as he paled beneath the mask. I was instantly numb with shock and my own anger began to slowly flood my senses. "I've never what?" I asked coldly, voice clipped, my words measured and quiet in the sudden stillness. He did not answer as he looked away with an air of shame. I wanted to kill him in that instant. "Well?" I demanded harshly; he flinched and I found I could not care. "Go ahead and say it!"

Erik was cowering now before my awesome wrath; he had shrunk back and his hands were wringing themselves in the folds of his cloak. "Nadir…"

"Say it!" I snarled, angry tears burning my eyes. "_Tell me I've never lost anyone!_"

He shuddered and I heard him draw in a thin breath. "Nadir," he said quietly, "I… I didn't mean it—I—"

"_Say it_," I insisted madly. "Look me in the face—like a man would—and tell me I did not lose my _wife_, or my _son_—or Mignonette. _Tell me!_"

He moaned softly, clutching what little hair he had. "Please—Nadir… Don't do this…"

My lips curled in distaste and I struggled for breath, my tears salty on my tongue as I inhaled deeply, desperate for the control and the end of the numbness. It came slowly and Erik waited, his eyes averted from the darker side of myself that he had rarely seen, and never that fully before. After a time, though I was still shaking, my outrage had dissipated and I sighed heavily. "We'd best leave," I said shortly, forcing the words through my clenched teeth. Erik made no reply but followed me meekly to my waiting carriage. Once safe within its confines, he began to fidget, chewing his lip. "What is it?" I snapped, my temper still short.

He looked away and seemed subdued. "I…I would like to visit…her…"

A lump lodged in my throat but I could not refuse; I nodded. "Of course." I directed the driver to the cemetery and we continued through the torpid night. Entering the empty golgotha was a simple matter of Erik picking the lock with his proficient hands and passing once more into the hallows saturated with the scent of damp stone, roses, and forgotten memories. Erik seemed no more substantial in the fading starlight than a pillar of ashes. I followed him at a distance, keeping ten or so feet behind him for fear of disrupting his reverence. His head was bowed and he moved soundlessly between the sepulchers and weepers, his cloak swaying imperceptibly in the faint breeze of his stride; he moved with a singular grace and purpose.

Mignonette's grave was located at the far side of the cemetery and already the sky had become lighter when we had reached it. Three wilting bouquets rested against the polished surface—testament to at least three grieving hearts beside my own and Erik's. _Are five enough to save her soul, Allah? It is not ten, but will You save her still? Or shall she perish in the flames with those in Sodom_10_?_ I shook my head sadly. Erik stopped at the foot of the grave and to my incredulity, knelt there on his knees in the fresh dirt and carefully, hesitantly removed his mask. From where I was I could dimly hear his words.

"Mignonette," he whispered, "I…I'm sorry I have not done as I promised." He chuckled brokenly at that. "I promised you a lullaby—and I can finally sing it for you…"

He grew quiet for a time. I almost believed that he had finished; I hoped he had finished, for it was a cold night and my chest was beginning to burn. Presently, however, I became aware of his soft humming, the words soon followed.

"_Good night my angel, time to close your eyes—and save these questions for another day._" The melody was simple and soft, utterly soothing, and I found myself drawn to it. Erik's face was still bowed."_I think I know what you've been asking me; I think you know what I've been trying to say. I promised I would never leave you, and you should always know where ever you may go; no matter where you are I never will be far away…_"

He hummed again then, following an instrumental only he and Mignonette could hear; he had begun to tremble gently. "_Good night my angel, now it's time to sleep—_"His voice wavered and he dragged in a shaking breath. "_—and still so many things I want to say. Remember all the songs you sang for me when we went sailing on an emerald bay; and like a boat out on the ocean, I'm rocking you to sleep. The water's dark and deep inside this ancient heart; you'll always be a part of me._"

Somehow, I did not doubt his oath. I swallowed and wrapped my arms about myself—I been foolish not to at least have grabbed a cloak… Erik was shuddering as well now and it was obviously becoming difficult for him to continue. "_Goodnight my angel, now it's time…to dream…and dream…how wonderful your…your life will be…_"He whimpered and I bit my lip, aching for him in spite of my previous anger."_Someday your child may cry and if you sing this lullaby, then in your heart…there will always be a part—_"A ragged sob broke through, but still he continued."_—of me…_"

I was shivering now, and the sun was beginning to paint the horizon red, gold, and all the colors of flame. Erik's voice was infinitely quiet and sad now and he reached out a gloved hand to touch the headstone longingly as he completed his promise."_Someday we'll all be gone but lullabies go on and on…_"I could hear a weak smile in his voice though he was beginning to sound so distant, as though lost in a fog, far away… "_They never die, that's how you…and I…will be…_"

And I heard no more as my vision faded to black.

—_End Chapter—_

**A/N:** Well, that's the end of Nadir's chapter. To save myself the trouble and threats—no, I didn't kill him. Calm down people. On another note, the song that Erik sings is "Lullaby (Goodnight, My Angel)", by Billy Joel—ridiculously huge time-gap, but I could not resist. Anyway, please, tell me what you thought; _review!_

The superscripted info:

_Banchche_—Persian (Farsi) word for "baby."

Charon—in Greek mythology, the boatman who ferries the souls of the dead across the River Styx, to the underworld.

"…_ma petit mère_…"—French; it means "my little mother."

Roma—another name for gypsies.

_Dies Irae_—a Medieval Latin Requiem detailing the Day of Judgment. Latin for "Days of Wrath."

"_Dies iræ! dies illa / Solvet sæclum in favilla / Teste David cum Sibylla!"_—"_Day of wrath and terror looming! Heaven and earth to ash consuming, David's word and Sibyl's truth foredooming!_" The first stanza of the _Dies Irae_.

"_Judex ergo cum sedebit, / Quidquid latet apparebit: / Nil inultum remanebit."_—"_So when the Judge shall sit, whatever is hidden shall be seen, nothing shall remain unpunished._" The sixth stanza of the _Dies Irae_.

"_Quid sum miser tunc dicturus? / Quem patronum rogaturus, / Cum vix justus sit securus?"_ —"_What am I, a wretched one, to say, what protector implore, when even a just person will scarcely be confident?_" The seventh stanza of the _Dies Irae_.

"_Juste judex ultionis, / Donum fac remissionis / Ante diem rationis._" —"_Just judge of vengeance, grant the gift of forgiveness, before the day of reckoning'…_" The eleventh stanza of the _Dies Irae_.

"_Are five enough to save her soul, Allah? It is not ten, but will You save her still? Or shall she perish in the flames with those in Sodom?"_—a reference to the Bible: In Genesis 18, God informs Abraham that he plans to destroy the city of Sodom because of its gross immorality. Abraham pleads with God not to destroy Sodom, and God agrees that he would stay his hand if there were 50 righteous people in the city, then 45, then 30, then 20, or even ten righteous people. The Lord's two angels only found one righteous person living in Sodom—Abraham's nephew Lot. Consequently, God destroyed the city. A similar story is in the Koran, but it is possible that Nadir has read the Bible, as he seemed somewhat curious about the religion; perhaps he was even told the story by Erik. As it was, I decided to stick with the Biblical version—artistic license.


End file.
